


Don't Give Up (it's just the weight of the world)

by K_R_Closson



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alistair is the softest soft, Blood Magic, Canonical Character Death, Cullen and children because there has to be some happiness in this story, Cullen is Team Hawke, Cullen related warnings, Death, Depression, Fenris is the emotionally competent one, Fenris snark, Hawke snark, It's not all bad, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Kirkwall related warnings, Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Past Torture, Taxes, The story equivalent of I need an adult, Time Travel Fix-It, Varric sass, We're all doomed, current guilt complex, past thoughts of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-08-16 03:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20185390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_R_Closson/pseuds/K_R_Closson
Summary: When Cullen finds himself back in Kirkwall he's faced with several questions. Who should he tell, what should he say, and how is he going to fix Kirkwall before things get out of hand. Again.Time-travel fix-it where things go better but not great, because it's still Kirkwall after all.Alternative title: The real treasure is the friends we make along the way (and the slavers we kill with them)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title Credit goes to Josh Groban.

Cullen groans, both at the incessant pounding in his head and the foul taste in his mouth. If he was a different man, he would assume he was hungover, but he doesn’t indulge in that particular vice. He’s cut most vices from his life, in an attempt to extend it and be of some use to those around him.

The last thing he remembers is...well, chaos. Corypheus’s forces, Inquisition forces, the sharp tang of red lyrium and the sharper tang of blood. He rolls onto his back and regrets it as the sun beats down on his closed eyelids.

It was dark during the fight. Does the sun mean they were victorious? Or was he left for dead after the battlefield was abandoned?

He turns his head, away from the sun, and cracks his eyes open. 

Sand.

And more sand.

Beyond the fucking sand is water. He isn’t in the Temple of the Sacred Ashes anymore. He pushes himself into a sitting position and takes inventory of his body. He’s sore, everything aching like a giant bruise. His calf twinges. He winces as he rotates his shoulder. His armor clinks with the movement.

Looking down, he takes another inventory. Full armor, his pelt, his sword. He’s speckled with blood as if he came from a battle, but there’s no battle to be seen. He was fighting beside Dorian, peace made between templar and mage for the sake of the world. He remembers Dorian casting a spell, something to slow the enemy. Everything after is fuzzy.

Cullen staggers to his feet. As his gaze sweeps down the coast, dread builds in his stomach. He isn’t as worldly as some, but he has traveled, and he doubts there’s two such distinctive coastlines in the world. Slowly, painfully, he turns away from the coast and toward--

_ Kirkwall _ .

What kind of cruel joke is this?

He stares at the forboding walls, takes in the statues which remind everyone this used to be a slave city. Well, still is, unofficially, of course. How had he been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and is now here?

“Traveling alone? Pretty and stupid.”

Cullen turns to see three men armed with poorly crafted weapons approach from the path to his right. The leader, a guy with a nasty nasty smile and a fresh healing cut on his face, leers at Cullen. “Rich too. The perfect trifecta.”

The Inquisitor would have a fancy quip to throw at the man. She’d disarm him with her wit before hurling fireballs. Cullen’s never seen the need to waste energy with speech. He draws his sword and holds it between him and the enemy. 

“You know what they say about men with big swords,” the guy on the left says.

It’s been many years since Cullen stepped foot in Kirkwall, but he still knows how to speak its language. He sweeps his sword in a wide arc, and the three men leap back. From there, it’s a matter of footwork and precise swordplay until all three men lay still at his feet. He checks them each for a pulse, weak but there, he hasn’t lost all his skill. 

He rummages through their pockets for anything of value. 

No, he hasn’t forgotten what life in Kirkwall is like.

#

While Cullen’s armor and weapon are well-made enough to attract attention, he no longer bears the insignia of the Templar Order. It’s a small blessing, but an important one, as he enters the city of his nightmares. He struggled to maintain order after Knight-Commander Meredith and what happened to the Chantry. When the Champion left, his duty discharged, it was Cullen left holding a broken city together.

And he did, for four years, until Cassandra recruited him into the Inquisition. He hopes the city hasn’t gone to hell since his departure, but one can never be sure. The guards at the gates step forward as if to challenge him, but the woman on the left scoffs and puts a hand on her partner’s arm. “He’s no refugee.”

_ Refugees, still?  _ Cullen pays the two people no mind as he passes through the city gates. His first order of business is to find Guard-Captain Aveline and figure out what’s going on. He strides through the city, his shield strapped to his back, one hand on his sword, and his other hand in his pocket, guarding his newly acquired coin. 

No one approaches him as he makes his descent. He passes templars and guards, commonfolk and a few nobles. He passes into Hightown and pauses, his breath caught in his throat. Because rising out of the buildings, standing tall, is the Chantry. But--the Chantry is  _ gone _ , a pile of rubble which sparked a war.

Has it been rebuilt so quickly? Why hadn’t anyone written of it? Surely, Varric would’ve known. Cullen forces his feet to move, because standing still in Kirkwall, even in an improved Kirkwall, is an invitation for pickpockets and thieves. 

He walks all the way to the Chantry steps and approaches Chanter’s board. His fingers trace over the messages as if touching the letters will rearrange them into words that make more sense. He  _ knows  _ these messages. These events. Except, they’ve happened. This isn’t a new Chantry. It’s the old one.

He stares at the wide, double doors as if the Maker himself will walk out and offer an explanation. How? 

_ You fought side-by-side with a time mage. Who only know what might have occurred _ .

No.

_ No _ . 

Except...maybe. Hadn’t he heard the story the Inquisitor and Dorian brought back from their adventures forward in time? It was the combined power of Corypheus and Alexius and a bit of chaos which hurled them forward. Corypheus was at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. So was Dorian and a heaping of chaos. 

What was it Leliana took to saying?  _ Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. _

It is not...impossible for time travel to occur. Which means, however much he doesn’t want to believe it, it is a distinct possibility. It’s just as likely he’s in the Fade, dreaming, except this is never how his Kirkwall dreams go. There’s more death, more screaming, a side of torture. 

The question now is, what does he do? If this is a dream, he could wait it out until he wakes up. But if this isn’t a dream, he needs to take some sort of action.

_ Shelter, food, purpose. _

It’s a good list to begin with. He tries to remember back to his Kirkwall days. He isn’t sure whether the Champion is here yet or what he’s doing. But it’s Kirkwall which means there are places to hide. Including a haunted mansion. It’s not actually haunted, of course, but there is at least one in Hightown which boasts a corpse on the entry stairs to deter visitors.

Fortunately, Cullen isn’t afraid of corpses.

#

He takes the back route into the mansion, avoiding the corpse altogether. He has to push aside some hanging ivy and push open a cracked window, but all-in-all it’s a simple entry. He pulls the foliage back into place and locks the window behind him. He’ll have to craft a better point of entry. Just because he isn’t going to use the front door is no reason not to be civilized. 

The mansion is musty, death clinging to its walls and tapestries. It’s dark as well, trickles of light filtered through the windows but not enough. Cullen pauses, strains his ears for sounds. Scurry of small feet, probably rats, ominous creaking, but nothing which suggests other residents. 

Still, he keeps his steps slow and quiet as he makes his way down the hall. He finds a room with a thick layer of dust on everything, clearly unused, and decides it’s good as any. First order of business, he finds a false wall behind a tapestry and stores his armor. It would be useful in a fight but at the moment, it calls too much attention to him. He keeps his sword. 

His coin he hides throughout the room, just in case of visitors. Next, he inspects the window. There’s a thick layer of plant life over it. For now, he lets it be, but he’ll transform it into his primary entrance and exit soon enough. 

He shuts his door, locks it, and lies down in his bed. It’s comfortable enough, but every time he moves, pockets of dust fly up. He sneezes four times in rapid succession. Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he closes his eyes. 

Back in Kirkwall. Why? Is this his chance to do things right?

Under the blankets, his hands tremble. He squeezes them into fists. He can’t afford an episode, not now when he’s on his own, unsure what he’s up against. If the Maker thought it best to send him back to fix his mistakes, why didn’t he remove the damn lyrium sickness as well? What’s the point of him if he’s  _ useless _ ?

_ The Maker always has a plan _ . Cassandra’s words haunt his thoughts as he drifts into an uneasy sleep.

#

Cullen has a place to rest his head, but he needs a source of income in order to keep his body fed. He considers the city guard, but he would have to give his name and that’s out of the question. Still, if Kirkwall is good for one thing, it’s providing employment to those who want to keep secrets. 

He takes two coins with him to The Hanged Man. He flips one coin to the bartender in exchange of what might charitably be called food. He can’t quite hold back his grimace and a buxom, pantless woman, laughs as she leans against his table.

“It goes down easier with something to drink.” The woman leans over, her necklace hanging down, to direct attention lower. 

Cullen keeps his eyes on her face. “It’s a bit too early to be drinking.”

“You  _ are  _ new around here. If it’s not drink which drew you here, what is it? It certainly isn’t the food.”

Cullen takes his first bite of meat pie and tries not to think about what meat exactly is in it. He’s eaten better, sure, but he’s also eaten worse. It’ll fuel him and it’s enough. When he was training as a templar, he was a growing boy and ate everything he could find, regardless of taste or quality. After Kinloch...well, he didn’t taste much after Kinloch. By the time his senses thawed, regular lyrium doses dulled them. It’s for the best. Pleasure is only a gateway to weakness. 

The woman leans forward, and she smiles as if she has the secrets to all the world’s pleasures. “You’ve spoken so I know you’re not mute. Shy?”

Cullen’s face heats up, an unfortunate side effect to being teased. As a child, it only made Mia more ruthless as she mocked him. The Inquisitor too, enjoyed poking at him for reactions. His chest aches for a woman that, if he’s correct, doesn’t exist yet. Oh, he’s sure there’s a young mage girl running around, getting herself into trouble. But she isn’t The Inquisitor. She isn’t the woman who made him believe again after he finally thought the flame of his faith was extinguished.

But the barmaid, or whoever she is, is still leaning on his table, waiting for an answer. 

“Hungry,” he answers.

The woman wrinkles her nose. “Desperate if you’re eating that slop. I suppose you’re looking for work.” She braces an arm on the table and reaches her hand down to curl around the hilt of his sword. “You know how to use this or do you just wave it around for show?”

Cheeks on fire, as if this woman is a mage, writing glyphs on his face, Cullen jerks his head, a short nod. “Would you like a demonstration?”

The woman laughs, delighted, but before she can say anything in response to Cullen’s, admittedly not well thought out response, she’s interrupted.

“Quit harrassing the poor man, Isabela. It’s bad enough he has to eat this shit.” 

“Hey, I offered to open the buffet.” She spreads her legs and gives Cullen a lewd wink, but it barely registers. Because Cullen’s rescuer is  _ Varric _ . The dwarf is as Cullen remembers, fewer lines on his face, and his jewelry isn’t quite as nice, but it’s still Varric.

But not his Varric. 

Because while the dwarf smiles as he sits next to Cullen, there isn’t any flicker of recognition. And it isn’t a friendly smile. Oh, it could pass as one, but Cullen knows when Varric likes someone and when he’s trying to swindle them. This smile? It’s closer to the latter.

“Did I hear you’re looking for work?”

“He was going to give me a demonstration before you interrupted,” Isabela says. She pouts, exaggerated, but with little feeling behind it. 

Cullen eases her grip from his sword. He won’t be able to use it, not in close quarters like this, but he doesn’t like other people touching his weapons. Not his actual sword or the one she keeps alluding to. 

“It’s been suggested I work so I can afford to dine elsewhere.”

“You speak awfully nice for a lowborn.” Varric looks under the table and whistles at Cullen’s sword. “And you’re packing a pretty blade. But hey, who am I to judge someone down on their luck? I have some connections. If you’re as good as you think you are, I can keep you in steady employment.”

“Mm, I could too.” Isabela’s gaze lingers on Cullen’s mouth, and he digs into his meat pie again just to make her look somewhere else. 

“You free today?” Varric asks. “There’s a stolen shipment a buddy of mine is interested in getting back. Do you think you can handle a few thieves?”

“They won’t be a problem.”

“Good. Here are the important details. You return the shipment to me, I give you 40% of the finder's fee. Anything you pick up along the way, it’s yours to keep. I won’t turn out your pockets at the end of this. You do something stupid and get hurt, I don’t know you. You do something stupid and get in trouble with the templars or the city guard, I don’t know you.”

“Simple enough.” Cullen finishes his breakfast and pushes the bowl away. “What am I retrieving?” 

#

Darktown lives up to its name. Fortunately, Cullen doesn’t need to see well to navigate the streets. Even after ten years, he knows this city well enough to find where he wants to go. A shipment of spices from Tevinter, smuggled then stolen, which is no doubt why he’s retrieving them and not the city guard. 

There are children huddled together for warmth, close to a firepit but not too close as if they know they’ll be chased away if they’re noticed. There’s another child under a rickety staircase as if hoping to stay hidden. His chest tightens, his heart clenched in the Maker’s fist.

He kicks a rock with his boot and it skitters toward the stairs. He follows its path and picks it up in his fist. He turns the rock over in his hands. “Have you been here long?” he asks quietly. 

There’s a long pause before the girl taps his boot once.

“Are you alone?”

Two taps, though Cullen isn’t positive she’s telling the truth. Still, he doesn’t blame her for lying. He chats with her a bit, making her comfortable before he asks a few questions about the smugglers. She gives him directions to a group of smugglers, he’s not sure if they’re the ones he wants, but he flips her a coin and goes on his way. 

He finds the storage room she mentioned, down a long hallway, tucked out of sight. He leans in the doorway as three men look through their bounty. He waits until they uncover a box of spices to clear his throat. 

They look up in unison and waste three seconds yelling about who was supposed to keep watch. Cullen hits one with the flat side of his blade and he drops to the ground. The second gets the hilt to the forehead. The third manages to draw his weapon, a dagger which doesn’t have much reach when compared Cullen’s sword.

“I’d rather not kill you,” Cullen says. 

“I’m looking forward to killing you.”

And, while Cullen would rather not shed blood, he will if he needs to. Two swings of his sword and it’s obvious this man is no match for him. Cullen backs him into the corner, dodges a desperate dagger thrust and kicks the man in the chest. He groans and slides down the wall. Cullen disarms him and binds his wrists with rope.

“Your men will untie you once they wake,” Cullen says. He takes the box of spices. After a moment, he takes the other two boxes as well. The man groans in protest but Cullen gives him a quelling look. “Be grateful I’m not going through your pockets.”

“You’re going to regret this,” the man blusters. 

“Would you like to die?”  _ It used to be my job, you know, killing those who deserved it. True, it was mages, but it’s not such a large step to go from killing unworthy mages to killing other unworthy peoples _ . But those days are behind him. Kinloch, even Kirkwall. He is--was?--the Commander of the Inquisition. He kills only for the good of the world. He’s seen too much death to take another’s life lightly.

The man shakes his head. Cullen takes his prizes and leaves. He stops in the hallway, once he’s sure there’s no one there. He transfers the goods from their boxes to a knapsack. It isn’t as obvious as carrying a stack of boxes and it means his hands are free. 

He’s attacked twice on his way back. Both men keep their lives but not their purses. 

He returns to The Hanged Man with blood on his tunic and Isabela greets him with a smile and a hearty, “Well, now you’re one of us. I’d tell you you only bleed the first time, but we both know it’s not true.”

Varric groans. “Rivaini, go get drunk and leave us to our business.” He flicks her a coin and she sighs but sashays away with only one look over her shoulder. Varric pats the space next to him at his table and Cullen sits. “I’m assuming you were successful.”

“Is this where you conduct your business?”

“I’d say we could take it to my room, but it would only give Isabela ideas. Do you have the spices?”

Cullen opens his knapsack and hands over the three bundles. “As requested. Your buddy, was he looking for his property returned or new stock for his shop?”

Varric stops inspecting the spices. “Why?”

Cullen opens his bag to show what else is in there, and Varric whistles, impressed. They haggle over the appropriate price for the lot and when they part ways, Varric reminds him to come back again for more work. 

#

Cullen wakes in a cold sweat, muscles still gripped tightly by his nightmare. He stares up at the ceiling--no hole--and breathes deeply. He isn’t in Kinloch. He isn’t trapped in a tower. He isn’t a failure, to his mages, to his templars, to Andraste. He’s in Kirkall.  _ If I can be sent here again, I could be sent there _ . Would he break this time? Knowing what being strong meant, would he allow himself to be used as fodder for a mad mage just to end it?

With a disgusted groan, Cullen throws his legs over the side of his bed. He sits up and changes out of his damp clothes. The sun isn’t up enough for it to be morning, but he knows better than to go to sleep now. 

Once he’s dressed for the day, he slips out his window and walks out of Hightown. He ducks behind a building when he hears a guard patrol, and he smiles sadly as he sees a familiar shock of red hair pass him by. Aveline, Varric, all these familiar faces, and yet they bring him no comfort.

He misses the Varric who teases Cassandra about her interest in his books but somehow manages to ‘forget’ a draft where she’ll find it. He misses the Aveline who confidently helped him run Kirkwall once Meredith was gone. Meredith...he’ll have to do something about her, but he doesn’t know what. 

An assassination would be tricky, and he isn’t sure it would matter much. Meredith’s corruption reaches deeper than just her. Removing Meredith would slot another templar into her place, a templar who holds the same views. He and Aveline set about changing the Kirkwall from the inside-out. It was hard work, but it was necessary. 

How is he supposed to do it on his own?

If the Maker sent him back, is he supposed to save the Chantry? Can he prevent the the mage rebellion? But if he changes things, will he stop Corypheus from rising? Or will he only prevent the Inquisitor from stepping into her role?

For the first time in a long time, he wishes he still had the faith to pray. Oh, he can fall to his knees, say the words, but he’s given up hope he’ll ever receive a response.

Once Aveline and her guard pass by, Cullen continues on his way. He loses himself in thought as he wanders, and he almost walks head-first into a group of templars. Honestly, guards and knights roaming the city? With this much protection it’s a wonder the city can manage so much crime.

He ducks out of the way but not before he catches a glimpse of an all too familiar man.

Himself.

#

Cullen stares down the tankard of ale in front of him. As a strict rule, he doesn’t drink. He used to. There was a time he thought replacing one mind-altering addiction with another was a good idea. Drunk was better than high, right? 

Wrong.

But if any day was a day for drinking and forgetting, it would be this one. He didn’t approach himself, but he definitely saw his own self on the street. He doesn’t know what it means except there’s two of him in this city.

_ Still not enough _ . He shoves away the whispered doubts. What if he approached himself and warned him? No, it’s too soon after Kinloch. His younger self would assume he was a demon or worse and kill him. 

He rubs his forehead. 

“This is new.” Isabela straddles a chair and taps his drink. 

“I was waiting for someone to offer it to.” Not quite true, but Cullen is grateful to push the mug firmly into her hands, making it a gift rather than a temptation. 

“Also new.” Isabela’s gaze is searching more than teasing as if she can sense something’s wrong. 

Cullen turns away, but before he can flee a loud group of mercenaries barge into the tavern. He recognizes one right away. If the broad shoulders and well-toned biceps didn’t give him away, the red streak on his nose would. 

“The Champion of Kirkwall,” Cullen breathes.

“The Champion of Kirkwall?” Isabela repeats his words and laughs as if he’s told a joke. “I’ll have to tell Varric that one. It’ll be perfect for one of his stories. No, he’s no champion. He’s Hawke. An idiot. Very attractive, don’t get me wrong. But an idiot. I can wave him over. You can offer him a drink instead.” Isabela waggles her eyebrows. 

Cullen shakes his head and when Isabela doesn’t call out to the newcomers, they settle at a nearby table. With Hawke is the warrior, the one with lyrium embedded in his skin. Fenris, if he remembers Meredith’s angry rants correctly. He didn’t cross paths with the elf in his earlier time here. He wishes he didn’t now. He can feel the hum of lyrium as if it’s under his own skin, a tickling buzz which will grow louder the longer he’s here.

“It isn’t haunted,” Fenris mutters.

Hawke laughs and slaps the slight man on the back. “I mean, we did a good job of killing anything there that was still alive, but I have to agree with the rumors on this one.  _ Something _ is making noise in your house. Something sad. Something lonely.”

“Something hurting,” a young girl adds. She has markings on her face which mark her as a Dalish. Her wide eyes make her seem even younger, empty-headed. He can’t remember her name from his reports. The buzz grows louder, angrier. 

Cullen stands up. He needs to get out of here.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of ghosts,” Isabela says. She puts her hand on Cullen’s arm but quickly retracts it at the glare he sends her way. “If you are, stay away from Hightown and Danarius’s Manor.”

“It’s Fenris’s Mansion!” Hawke calls from his table.

Isabela waves a dismissive hand. “It’s just a name. What’s in a name anyway?”

Cullen slips away while they bicker. He makes it to Hightown and circles around the front of the place he’s been staying. The marker is cracked as if someone took something blunt and heavy to it but if he studies the pieces he can see what it says.

_ Danarius’s Manor _ .

#

That night, he ties a cloth around his mouth and hopes it’ll be enough to muffle his nightmares.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks later, there’s been no more rumblings about ghosts in the manor, and Varric is waiting for him with two meat pies at his now-customary table at The Hanged Man. When Cullen sits, Varric pushes one of the pies in front of him. “I’d buy you a drink, but I’ve heard it would be a wasted gesture.”

“I believe the phrase is  _ it’s the thought that counts _ .”

Varric chuckles. “You must have picked that one up from Hawke. I’ve never met someone worse at giving gifts. Did you know for Isabela’s name day, he gave her a fertility charm? At least we all had a good laugh out of it. This is a congrats pie, by the way. You’re being promoted.”

“Am I? 50% of the spoils are mine now?”

“Ha. No but it’s not only solo missions anymore. Group missions mean better loot and, as I’m sure you know, better loot means a better cut.”

“Depends on how many are in the group.”

“For now, it’s a small group. You and Broody.” He snaps his fingers. “Hey, Broody, come make a friend.”

“I have enough friends.” Fenris sits across from them and glowers.

Cullen grips his spoon tighter and tries not to stare at the lyrium markings. This seems like a very bad idea. “If, uh, Broody, objects to a partner, I can continue to do solo work.”

“It’s Fenris,” the man says coolly. “And I don’t need an anchor weighing me down. I don’t see why Hawke and I can’t continue working together.”

“Because Isabela bet on you two kissing this month, and I don’t want to lose the wager.” Varric grins as Fenris splutters. “So, you two. The silent duo. There’s a package retrieval job on the Wounded Coast.”

Fenris narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. He taps his long fingers on the table as if he’s bored. Cullen finishes his meal as quickly as possible. He still doesn’t know what’s in the pie--still doesn’t want to know--but it’s filling enough. If he wasn’t skulking about someone’s house-- _ Fenris’s  _ house--he’d attempt to cook something for himself.

Cullen stands up and Fenris stands along with him.

“I’m tempted to join you just for the blissful silence,” Varric says.

“You would ruin it,” Fenris tells him and stalks out of the tavern, leaving Cullen to hurry along after him.

Fenris’s armor is...odd. His chest plate is curved, protecting his torso but not his arms, and he wears bulky gauntlets but stretchy, non-armored pants. Cullen figures the man is limber enough to dodge most blows but the ones which do land, he doesn’t have much protection against. He wears his longsword strapped to his back. It’s long enough to almost touch the ground. Another inch or two and the elf would have to wear heels to keep it from scraping.

Cullen grins at the thought before he quickly wipes the expression off his face. Fenris doesn’t turn or call him out for his moment of pleasure. He continues to prowl, graceful, through the streets of Kirkwall, as Cullen hurries after him. He’s glad he left his own armor at home. It’s functional and if he were ever in a real fight he would want it, but here it would be clunky and in the way.

They make it out of the city and to one of the many winding paths to the coast. Fenris pauses long enough for Cullen to fall into step with him.

“I assume you know the rules?”

“I die, you don’t know me. I’m hurt, you don’t know me.”

Emotion flickers across Fenris’s face too quickly for Cullen to catch it. “I don’t know you at all. Varric calls you Curly. Isabela calls you Pretty Boy.

“Stanton.” Technically, it’s his name, his second name but still one he was given at birth. It seems like tempting the Maker’s plan to call himself Cullen. Still, as Fenris nods and strides ahead, Cullen feels a flicker of disappointment. It’s quickly chased away by guilt.

They pass through two groups of people clearly doing shady business, but it’s not the shady business they’re interested in, so they continue on their way. Fenris keeps a brutal pace, and Cullen hopes they don’t have much further to travel, because he doesn’t want to exhaust himself before the fight.

By the time Fenris holds a hand up for Cullen to pause, Cullen has worked up a light sweat. His limbs are loose and warm, and he quiets his steps as he approaches the ledge. Beneath them, a group of Tevinter slavers meet two men from Kirkwall. Between them are three trussed  _ children _ , two boys and a girl.

Cullen’s hands curl into fists at his sides as the slavers approach the children to appraise their worth. He feels Fenris’s gaze on him and a quick look shows the elf noting Cullen’s reaction. He nods, as if accepting Cullen’s rage.

And then he leaps from the ledge with a hollering cry.

Cullen leaps after him. Fenris goes for the slavers, his marks lighting up as he punches his fist through the chest of one. Cullen drives his sword through one of the Kirkwall men. He pulls it out and blocks the charge of the second man. The children cry out, and Cullen, while fending off his attacker, pulls a dagger from his belt. He cuts the bonds of one of the children and presses the dagger, hilt first, into his hands.

Then he begins his offensive drive. Sweep, cut, stab, and the Kirkwall man jumps back, worse at defense than he was at offense. He swings his sword, too big for him and it makes him clumsy. Cullen slips under his guard and lands a killing blow. He kicks the man off his blade and jumps into the Tevinter fray.

Fenris is a blur of action, using his sword now, just as deadly with it as he was with his hands. If the numbers weren’t so uneven, Cullen would stop and admire. As it is, he finds his place at Fenris’s back and they move into a dance so precise, he can’t believe they’re first time partners.

They’re a whirling dervish of blades, their enemies scrambling out of the way of one only to be caught on the next. When they’re done, the ground is littered with bodies. Fenris growls and kicks the slavers to be sure.

Cullen leaves him to confirm death and loot the bodies. He approaches the children who stare up at him with wide eyes. He gives them his best  _ friendly neighborhood templar _ smile and goes to one knee so he isn’t quite so intimidating. “We heard you might be in trouble. We came to help you. Is there anyone worried you’re missing?”

All three shake their heads.

“The man said he would give me some bread if I came with him,” the younger boy says.

“He was going to give me a job,” the older one adds.

The girl ducks her head and holds out her arms, showing the thin ring of bruises on her wrists. “I tried to get away.”

“You all did very well,” Cullen says. He wants to gather them in his arms and hug them, but he figures it won’t be welcome. “We’ll bring you back to Kirkwall with us. We’ll bring you to someone who can help you.”

Fenris makes a noise, protest or agreement, Cullen doesn’t know him well enough to tell. Cullen turns to see Fenris glowering at the corpses. Cullen glances at the children. “Do you want to help strip the bodies? We can see if they have anything you want.”

Fenris’s grunt seems disapproving, but he doesn’t protest as Cullen strips down the two Kirkwell men. They pile the naked bodies near the cliff. Cullen turns the children away from them. They have a neat pile of clothes, some okay armor, decent weapons, and a modest amount of coin.

They have a slower pace on the way back to the city. The girl clasps Cullen’s hand and smiles up at him until he clasps it back. The boys huff as if they’re too old for such things, but the younger one glances back a few times as if he wants the comfort of Cullen’s hand as well.

When they reach the city, Cullen turns toward the Gallows. Fenris tilts his head, considering, and then takes the lead. They reach the templar station which governs the boats which make passage to the Gallows possible.

Thrask is on duty, and seeing his face makes Cullen stumble, but he recovers and smooths out his expression. This Thrask is alive and well, no abduction gone awry. Has he already begun to doubt Meredith? Could Cullen ask him for his help?  _ Maker, what would you have me do _ ?

The Maker doesn’t answer. Cullen approaches Thrask, guiding the children when they hesitate. Thrask eyes them, wary, but there’s a hint of something soft in his gaze.

“These three children need protection,” Cullen says. “As a templar and servant of Andraste, I ask you to show compassion to them as Andraste shows to all her children.”

Thrask looks him over, critically enough for Cullen to worry this was a bad idea, but then he beckons to the three children. “We will offer you shelter. You will have to work for it, and I cannot promise it will be easy. Though, I figure once Cullen sees you, your chores will lessen.”

“I can sew,” the girl says.

The older boy puffs out his chest. “I want to be a templar like you!” He swings an imaginary sword and Thrask chuckles and dodges the weapon. “A fierce warrior already.” He ushers the children to the boat where another templar helps them in. He looks back at Fenris and Cullen. “Will anyone miss these children?”

“They were snatched by slavers.”

Thrask’s lip curls in distaste. “I trust there’s nothing more to fear from these slavers?”

“They will not snatch anymore children from your streets.”

“Thank you.”

Cullen waves to the children, standing at the water’s edge until the boat is on the other side. Only then does he turn. He and Fenris make their way down the street in silence until it’s time to turn toward the tavern. Cullen pauses.

Fenris makes a noise deep in his throat, this one Cullen identifies as a demand for information. “Tevinter slavers. They must have a boat.”

Fenris waits but Cullen has the impression his patience won’t last long. Cullen pulls the clothes they took out of his pack. “Do you want to see what’s on their boat?”

With a grin, Fenris pulls Cullen into an alley where they change into the foreign robes. They flip their hoods up and make their way out of the city again. It doesn’t take long to find the right ship. They’re walking along the docks when someone calls out to them. “What happened to the cargo? And the muscle?”

Fenris leaps into action, Cullen only a step behind.

#

They stagger into The Hanged Man which makes Cullen grin, because most people stagger  _ out  _ of taverns, not into them. Between them they carry a small chest. Varric whistles when he sees it. Isabela calls the barmaid over.

Hawke grins and gestures for them to sit. “Fenris, you need to make friends more often. Show us what you found.”

They drop the chest on the table with a heavy thud. Inside are coins, not as many as there could be, because they stopped by the Gallows to pass a modest pouch to Thrask. It won’t cover raising the three children, but it’s something at least.

“Cullen’s already smitten.” Thrask tried to sound annoyed but it came across as fond instead. “I don’t know why he became a templar. The Maker clearly intended him to be a father.”

“The Maker works in mysterious ways,” Cullen said. If his smile was forced and his steps were hurried as they leave, no one called him out on it.

Here, in the tavern, Cullen can’t manage even a forced smile. Slavers kidnapping children, seeing Thrask-yet another person he let down-, hearing about his younger self, it’s a lot to deal with in one day. He wants to take his portion and retreat to his quiet room.

Varric runs his fingers through the coins. “I should’ve come along with you so I could hear the story behind this.”

“Slavers,” Fenris says. “We killed them, killed their suppliers, and rescued the children.”

“Trading in children?” Isabela spits on the floor. “I hope you burned their ship.”

Fenris and Cullen exchange a look.

“This is a lot of coin for three slaves,” Varric says. “They brought this to the transaction?”

“We found their ship,” Cullen answers. “We took what we wanted.”

“And burned it?” Isabela asks.

“It won’t sail again,” Fenris promises.

Hawke shivers dramatically. “I can’t believe you doubt their storytelling, Varric. I’m spooked. It must be Fenris’s deep rumble. You should write a story about Fenris sometime. He’d make a good leading man. Hey, if you need a love interest, I could pose for you.”

“It’s a book, idiot.” Varric rolls his eyes. He catches the pouch Isabela hands him and puts exactly half the coins into it. He hands it to Cullen, the bag bulging too large to hide easily. He laughs at Cullen’s expression and adds two small coins to the bag. “That’s your 40%. The other stuff? Finders keepers. Or something like that. It’s not enough to retire on so don’t go getting any ideas.”

Cullen chuckles, a little sad as he takes the pouch. “I’m far from retirement. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You can have a break. You don’t want to burn out.”

Hawke clasps Cullen on the shoulder and urges him to sit. “Stay. Have a drink. Or a pie, whatever you fancy. I know you and Fenris are men of little words. Maybe you can act out the story.” Hawke lounges against the table, a sprawl which calls attention to his solid torso. He grabs a drink and only spills a little on himself as he takes a deep swig.

“We will not perform for you pleasure,” Fenris says.

“Well, there goes my hopes for the evening.” Isabela huffs and drops down onto Hawke’s lap. “You’ll just have to entertain me instead.” She laughs and steals his drink from him.

Cullen watches as the group falls into easy banter, the kind borne from familiarity and trust and many battles fought together. It reminds him of the Inquisition, of Cassandra and Josephine, Leliana and Iron Bull, Dorian and even Solas when he bothered to participate. He slips out of the tavern before he can ask Varric to fleece him at cards just for a bit of normalcy.

He makes it to Fenris’s mansion unhassled. He hides his coin and drops down onto his bed even though it’s too early for sleep. His room, small but functional, reminds him of his templar days. Enough space to live but not too much to as to be excessive.

He ties his cloth into place and closes his eyes.

#

“That was a test, you know.” Isabela draws shapes in the condensation on the table. She makes a sun, wipes it away, makes a boat next. “Sending you out with Fenris.”

“I’m not stupid,” Cullen says.

“Oh, so you do have some bite to you. Good. I was starting to think you were boring. Don’t get me wrong, hired muscle is hired muscle, but a guy with morals? Hawke likes you now. You might get to have some  _ real  _ fun.”

“Many people fail your  _ are slavers bad _ test?”

“It’s Kirkwall.”

Cullen shrugs, conceding her point.

“But let’s see. No mercy to slavers,” she holds up a finger. “Kind to children, found extra treasure.” She holds three fingers up now and smirks. “I could do a lot with this, you know.”

Rather than blushing, Cullen finds himself startled into a laugh. She reminds him a little bit of Dorian, wildly inappropriate but somehow charming at the same time.

“Are you immune to me already?” Isabela clutches her chest. “Norah, revive me!”

Norah, their favorite barmaid drifts over, an indulgent smile on her lips. She winks at Cullen before she tosses what he hopes is water on Isabela’s face. Isabela laughs and splutters and tries to slap the barmaid who giggles as she jumps behind Cullen.

“The brave ser will protect me.”

“Brave?” Cullen asks.

“Ser?” Isabela echoes.

“Would you like an egg pie this morning?” Norah asks. “The crust is fluffier, and the filling is egg. Cooked, of course.”

“Thank you, that is very kind.”

Norah turns to Isabela with an arched eyebrow. “See? He’s polite.”

“Doesn’t make him a  _ ser _ .” Isabela kicks Cullen lightly under the table. “How’d you end up in Kirkwall? I don’t think we’ve heard this story yet. Not that you’ve told us much. You do have the whole mysterious thing going for you but honestly, I think it’s overkill what with the handsomeness and chivalry.”

“Flatterer,” Cullen says.

“And you still haven’t answered my questions.” She laughs and ruffles his hair. “Maybe a few more trips and you’ll learn to talk out of self-defense. I can’t promise Hawke won’t just talk louder, but it’s always worth a shot.”


	3. Chapter 3

Cullen suspects he spends more time in taverns than any other sober man in Thedas. It happens when he has no means to cook for himself and keeps company with people who prefer drinking establishments to any other.

On some days, it makes him miss Skyhold, his office, the ladder to his room, even the hole in his ceiling. He misses the ramparts, where he could pace and feel the fresh breeze, the war room where the greatest minds in Thedas could gather to plan how to save the future.

Today, none of the Champion’s crew are in the tavern. Norah is and there’s a man who watches her move through the tavern, a hunger in his gaze Cullen doesn’t like. Norah doesn’t like it either if the way she avoids him is any indication. She can’t avoid him entirely, because he’s a patron, but when she brings him his drink, she keeps the table between them.

It isn’t enough. The man leers and still finds a way to pinch her side or her ass if she steps too close. Cullen raises his hand for another drink. Norah bustles over with an apology and watered down juice.

“No apology needed. Do you require assistance? I would not make your problem worse, but if there’s anything I can do…”

Norah glances over at the far table. The drunk man watches them, his eyes narrowed. She quickly drops her gaze to her hands. “I can’t chase him out. We need the business.”

Cullen catches one of her hands. She has the calluses of a woman who works, and her skin is rough, dry from the climate. He raises her hand to his lips and brushes a kiss over the back of it.

“Are you sure you’re not a nobleman?” A delicate flush spreads over Norah’s cheeks.

“Maybe I’ve read too many of Varric’s books.”

Norah laughs and slaps his shoulder. Her touch turns gentle, more of a caress. It’s easy to turn into it even though it doesn’t stir anything in him. Norah is far too young for him and, even as a barmaid in Lowtown, she’s too innocent.

“I can stay until closing and walk you home.”

“You’re one of the first out of here at night. But thank you. You’re too sweet to be hanging out with Hawke and his friends.”

Cullen smiles. It’s easier than telling her all the ways she’s wrong. He doesn’t linger over his meal, his thoughts too dark to keep in this room even if he doesn’t share them with anyone. He leaves and the back of his neck tingles with awareness. He’s being followed.

He ducks down an alleyway and slips into a doorway. He presses himself flat against the door. A count of five and someone passes by his hiding place. It’s the brute from the tavern. Once he passes the doorway, Cullen clears his throat and steps into the open. “Looking for me?”

The man turns around. He snarls but doesn’t reach for a weapon. It’s easy to shove him up against the nearest building. The man splutters and his breath reeks of alcohol. “The wench is mine. You won’t touch her again.”

“You’ll find a new tavern to drown you pathetic existence in.” Cullen grabs the man’s wrist and twists it until he pins the man’s arm behind his back. He shoves the man’s face into the wall and hopes it scrapes the skin.

“Or what?”

Cullen adjusts his grip and the man groans and goes up on his toes as if he can ease the pressure. Cullen leans in and the man is blubbering in seconds.

“This is a friendly warning,” Cullen says. “You won’t be able to handle  _ or what _ .”

He steps back and the man scurries off. Cullen wipes his hand on his pants as if he can rid himself of the man’s presence.

“Nicely done.”

Cullen isn’t surprised to hear Hawke’s voice. He looks down the alley to where the future Champion of Kirkwall leans against the wall, watching. Cullen offers a terse smile. “He’ll only find a new tavern, and a new woman to harass. I didn’t stop a problem so much as relocate it.”

Hawke sighs and his shoulders slump as if he’s acknowledge an invisible weight. “That’s the trick of it, isn’t it? I can’t tell you how many smugglers I’ve raided, how many slavers I’ve killed, how many mages and templars I’ve tried to get through to. Trouble bubbles up through every crack.”

“We have to address the root problems.” It’s what he and Aveline attempted to do when they were in charge. And they were making progress, slowly but surely, Kirkwall was changing. But then the Conclave happened and the end of the world took precedence.

“Well, this is depressing. I’d hate you to base your opinion of me on this. I’m normally a very cheerful person.” Hawke pushes off the wall. “Come with me to Fenris’s place. He has a collection of good wine. It’ll be gone soon with the way he drinks, but he’ll spare a glass or two for friends.”

“Are we friends?” Cullen asks.

“You killed slavers together. I’m surprised he hasn’t made matching necklaces yet. Come on. We want to make it before he starts throwing empty bottles at the wall. One time, I was too late and caught a flying wine bottle to the shoulder.”

“I don’t drink,” Cullen says even as he follows Hawke up to Hightown.

“Good. You can tuck us into bed once we pass out.”

#

Hawke and Fenris do in fact drink a terrifying amount. They joke at first, kicking lightly at each other as they gulp their wine. Jokes turn into serious talk which turns into maudlin stories. Hawke is the first to faceplant on the table. Fenris slumps in his chair and, as if his bones have turned to jelly, he slides out of his chair onto the floor.

“I see Hawke was serious about this.” Cullen sighs and lifts Hawke with an arm under his knees and another under his back. Hawke is a tall, muscular man, which is to say he’s dense, and even though Cullen is fit, he isn’t looking forward to a long walk. He stops in the first bedroom he finds and deposits Hawke in bed. Because he’s a good friend, he removes the man’s boots.

Because he’s also a bad friend, he tucks Fenris into the same bed. He’ll tell Isabela what he did tomorrow. Maybe she’ll be able to tell him how the two reacted. There’s something between them, a simmering tension neither seems inclined to act on. Cullen wouldn’t call himself a matchmaker, but he knows how quickly life can turn sour. There’s nothing wrong with wanting those he cares about to have as much joy as they can.

_ And when did you start caring about them? _

Cullen pulls the blanket over both of them. He hesitates a moment before he brushes a finger over the lyrium marks on Fenris’s shoulder. To his relief, and possible disappointment, he doesn’t feel the surge of a good hit. He simply feels skin against his own.

Fenris is a temptation but not a danger. Not in the lyrium sense at least.

“Good night,” Cullen says.

He’s careful not to step on the corpse on the way out.

#

Fenris stalks, every stride purposeful, a lethal promise in the way he moves. Hawke saunters, sometimes stumbling, sometimes meandering, but there’s a hidden tension beneath his mage robes. He’s a man who understands the importance of appearance and how it can be used to one’s advantage.

Cullen tries to shake both the templar and the commander from his own walk, but he knows he doesn’t succeed. Isabela has made too many comments about the stick up his ass for him to have anything approaching a normal gait.

The three of them together, it isn’t a surprise when they’re given a wide berth.

Of course, not everything in Kirkwall has sense in their heads.

Something wet hits Cullen’s cheek. A moment later, he realizes he’s been spit on. The man who did it steps off the stoop of a shanty house, its walls crumbling and shutters hanging on by a single hinge. His face is gaunt, his clothes dirty. “Refugee scum. Your mother was a bitch and your father was a scruffy stray--”

The rest of his insult turns into a cough as Fenris pins the man to the door with a hand around his throat. His marks don’t glow, but it’s only a matter of time and while Cullen doesn’t appreciate the spit or the insult, he doesn’t want to see the man’s throat torn out for it.

“Careful, the door won’t hold if you push too hard.”

Fenris rolls his eyes.

Hawke wipes the spit off Cullen’s face with his sleeve and, given their recent adventure in the sewers, Cullen almost wishes he hadn’t. “Your father is a scruffy stray? What a coincidence, so is mine.” Hawke claps Cullen on his back as if he’s just learned they share a homeland. “Come along, Fenris, you know how happy Varric will be if we miss the first round. I want to make the cheap bastard pay.”

With a disarming smile and a light tone, Hawke convinces one of the most dangerous warriors in Kirkwall to part with his prey. They continue on their way with only a single look back on Fenris’s part.

Varric, unknowingly, does his part by groaning when they enter the tavern. Hawke laughs and bounds over, a pup’s energy in a grown body. “That’s right, Norah, a full round on Varric here!”

Hawke waves off Varric’s grumbling and then his questions until he finishes his first drink. Cullen parts with a few details of their trip to the sewers, but midway through his second drink, Hawke takes over with the embellishment of unimportant details and glossing over of main events which drives Varric up a wall.

“And then some blight-cursed idiot tried to insult us and really said some quite flattering things about ourselves and our parentage.”

“ _ You _ complimented our parentage,” Cullen says mildly. “And he did insult us.”

“He tried. I never understand why calling us dogs or dog lovers is supposed to be an insult.”

“It’s not the words but the intent behind them. I know, uh, knew a Qunari who called a Tevinter mage ‘Vint, but the way he said it, it was almost an endearment. The man we just saw, his words may have been kind but he didn’t intend them to be.”

The entire table turns to stare at him, and Cullen feels a hot flush spread up his cheeks.

“Nice speech, Curly. You ever think you’re meant for more than whacking things with that big sword of yours?”

Varric means it as a jest, but he has no idea what Cullen used to do before he came here. Cullen can’t push away from the table quickly enough. He struggles with words sometimes, finding the right ones, knowing when to use them and when to hold them back. But he never struggled with his men and women in front of them, never faltered when they needed him. But here, he doesn’t have the purpose of the Inquisition.

He isn’t even needed here, with Hawke and his friends. They succeeded without him the first time around. What does his presence here matter? What is he doing besides playing pretend?  _ Maker, if this is a Fade dream, please, let me wake _ .

As usual, his prayers go unanswered.

He stumbles out of the tavern as if he’s had too much to drink. He knocks shoulders with a man on his way in, and he’s shoved for it. His back hits a wall, and he holds his hands up, a universal sign for not wanting any trouble. The guy spits, at Cullen’s feet thankfully, not his face, and barges into the bar.

Cullen makes it halfway to Hightown before Fenris catches up with him. He’s a little surprised at who the group sent, but he’s glad it isn’t someone he knows from before. He’s even gladder it isn’t Isabela. He isn’t up to her particular brand of conversation.

If Cullen’s lucky, Fenris won’t even say anything.

“I know what it’s like to be a weapon.”

When has Cullen ever been lucky? He doesn’t want to dismiss Fenris, not when he knows what an effort it is for the man to speak, especially about his past, but Cullen isn’t in the mood to listen, either.

“I thought it would be different, working with Hawke. It is. I choose which fights to take up. I suppose this is what freedom is, deciding for yourself who you drive your blade through.”

In the Inquisition, Cullen didn’t personally drive his blade through many enemies. He poured over maps, read spy reports, figured out where to move what units. Other people carried out his orders, fought and died and sometimes lived in order to advance the cause. It was worth it, he will go to his grave believing in the Inquisitor, but he has no such purpose here.

“Living isn’t enough,” Cullen says.

“What would be enough?”

_ I want to go home _ . Cullen has to pause and rest his hand on the wall as weakness overtakes him. He wants  _ home _ . The ladder which demands one last effort if he wants to sleep, the hole in his ceiling so he can stare up at the stars and be reminded of what they fight for. He wants the war table, where he’s surrounded by brilliant, formidable women as they decide how best to save the world. He wants the Inquisitor, someone real, flesh and bone, for him to believe in.

“The past is behind me,” Cullen says and he can’t keep the weariness from his tone.

“We can only move forward,” Fenris agrees. “I don’t remember my life before these markings. Varric bets I was just as...broody as a child as I am now. The things Danarius did to me, they shaped me. They  _ created  _ me. Now, I create myself.”

“Do you like who you’re becoming?”

“My purpose is to kill Danarius. I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do after. Some days, it’s hard to believe there will be an after. What does one do after they kill their creator?”

“That sounds like a question for Sebastian.”

“He would disapprove.”

“And I wouldn’t?”  _ I’m a former templar _ . It would be easy to say and yet the words stick in his throat.

“You’ve never told me it was the Maker’s plan for me to be enslaved.”

Cullen winces. Sebastian means well, but religion isn’t always the comfort people think it to be. There was a time Cullen poured all his considerable faith into the Maker and Andraste. He was rewarded for his service and belief with Kinloch. Maybe it was part of the great plan for his life. He certainly learned valuable lessons. But the suffering, not just his own but of his brothers and sisters, of the mages they were supposed to protect...he can’t find it in him to embrace a plan which causes so much harm.

They end up outside Fenris’s mansion, and the elf ushers Cullen inside.

“I thought Hawke was your preferred drinking companion.”

Fenris plucks a bottle off the table. “I don’t have to share with you. And, after nights drinking with you, I wake up in my bed rather than this chair with a terrible crick in my neck. I know you aren’t one to speak much, but I can promise to drink enough to forget what you tell me.”

“It is a kind offer, but one I will decline tonight.”

“Tonight?” Fenris sprawls in his customary chair, his legs spread wide, his bottle clutched in his fingers. “This suggests there is a time you may accept my offer.”

“Perhaps.”

Fenris takes a long drink, his head tipped back, his throat working as he swallows.  _ Temptation, indeed _ .

#

Cullen’s experiencing a rare night without nightmares when a crash and shouted voices pull him from his sleep. It takes him a moment to realize what he’s hearing is real. It takes another for him to grab his sword and his shield. He doesn't have time for full armor. He prays he won’t need it.

He runs toward the front of the mansion, where he hears the cries--someone is in danger. Breathing is difficult and he realizes he still has his makeshift gag in place. He pulls the cloth from his mouth and allows it to dangle around his neck like a collar.

Fenris’s grunts, his battle cries, familiar to Cullen after two months here in Kirkwall, urge Cullen to run faster. He skids into the main room and pauses at the sight before him. Mages, half a dozen of them, circle Fenris who is trapped in some kind of glyph. His lyrium markings flare, a blinding blast of light which does no good. The mages hold hands, pinning Fenris where all his formidable strength and power can’t help him.

Cullen could barge in, take his sword to as many mages as possible, but it might not be enough. He glances around the room, takes in the two men with swords, one of them who’s holding thick manacles, and knows what he has to do.

He takes a deep breath, searches for the hum of magic in the room. It’s thick, like an oppressive heat, the kind of summer he avoids by hiding out in Ferelden with its frigid winters but bearable summers. It’s difficult, with so many mages working in unison, to find the lines of magic, where they come from.

But Fenris needs him, and Cullen concentrates, tracing each thread of magic until he can see how the blanket is woven. Once he has the picture in his head, he unravels the blanket, chasing the threads back to where they originated.

There’s a sound of surprise, followed quickly by anger as he not only shoves the magic back into the mages but pushes it down, down, down to where they can’t touch it.  _ Thank the Maker I don’t need lyrium for this _ . It’s a struggle, silencing six powerful mages at once, but if he can break the binding spell, Fenris will take care of the rest.

Pressure builds behind his head, a warning he’s overextending himself. A snap and the pressure eases, just a bit. He doesn’t dare split his focus, but he would bet Fenris has killed one of the mages.

A new voice, Hawke this time. The pressure eases again. Cullen is able to open his eyes and still keep the four remaining mages from using their magic. Two more mages down. Without their magic, they have no defenses, and Fenris and Hawke cut through them with ease. The man with the manacles drops them and charges Fenris with his sword, leaving the remaining mages for Hawke.

Cullen’s missing something, it’s right on the edge of his awareness and--

A sharp pain. There’s a dagger embedded in his shoulder.

Ah, yes, that’s what he’d forgotten. There was another non-mage. Cullen grunts and loses his hold on the mages. He drives his sword through his attacker. He yanks it out, blade bloody, and turns to survey the rest of the scene.

Fenris and Hawke stand amongst a pile of bodies. There’s a hum of magic in the air, but before Cullen can catch it and push it back to its source, he’s flung back into the wall and everything goes dark.


	4. Chapter 4

Cullen wakes up to the bite of rough cloth against his mouth. His head aches and his limbs feel sore. Another episode which led to bad dreams. Typical. He allows himself a quiet groan, mostly muffled by his cloth. He rolls his neck and hears small pops and cracks. He doesn’t feel a pillow.

His eyes fly open. He’s bound to a chair, his arms behind his back, his ankles manacled to the chair legs. His sword and shield are in an undignified heap at...Isabela’s feet. He drags his gaze up. The woman’s arms are crossed over her chest, no hint of a warm smile or teasing look.

Varric, Fenris, and Hawke are here as well. It isn’t the whole crew, but they must figure they don’t need it. Cullen’s injured, his shoulder bleeding sluggishly, he’s restrained, and he’s exhausted from the fight.

Hawke prowls forward, nothing friendly in his posture or gaze as he tugs the cloth out of Cullen’s mouth. It drops against Cullen’s skin, damp from his own spit. It occurs to him, he’s still in his bedclothes, an oversized tunic with a gaping V because he hadn’t had time to do the laces up.

“Is that one of those weird Ferelden collars?” Isabela asks. “Nice of you to wear it. Doubles well as a gag.”

“Mm, no.” Fenris creeps closer. In his black bodysuit, he looks like a portent of death. His markings hum with unused power, and Cullen tries not to flinch as he approaches. He grasps Cullen’s chin in a tight grip. His thumb presses down on the chapped skin at the corners of Cullen’s mouth. “That’s it’s purpose, isn’t it?”

Cullen nods.

He’s rewarded with a sharp slap. The sting lingers long after the initial pain.

“Words,” Varric says, a hard edge to his voice. “It’s time you start using them.”

Cullen looks away from Fenris and the tempting shine of lyrium. He can’t take its power from Fenris’s skin, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t there, taunting him. He can practically taste it, how it would wake him up, give him the strength to get out of this mess. He...wants.

Cullen digs his short fingernails into his own skin, the pain helping to clear his head. “I needed a place to stay when I arrived in Kirkwall. There was a manor with extra rooms so I took one of them. But I have nightmares. I didn’t want to call unnecessary attention to myself.”

“So you wear this,” Fenris twists the cloth in his hand until it pulls tight against Cullen’s throat, choking him, “every night? Are we supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“No.”

Fenris lets go with a disgusted noise. “You have been living in my house this whole time. To what purpose?”

“I needed a roof over my head. You had a lot you weren’t using. Honestly, I didn’t know it was yours at first.”

Hawke drags a hand down his face. “So, you and Fenris have been squatting in the same manor. You started doing jobs for Varric because…”

“He offered. I needed money. “

Isabela kicks his sword, and Cullen can’t help his wince at seeing his gear treated in such a way. “You come from money.”

Hawke steps into Cullen’s line of vision until he’s taking up the whole thing. His expression is closed off, something heavy and painful in his countenance. It reminds him of when the Champion arrived at Skyhold, weary with the weight of the world and knowing he’d be asked to carry more soon.

“You silenced the mages. Only templars can do that.”

Cullen hears the distinctive sound of a crossbow being loaded.

“I was once a templar,” Cullen answers.

Isabela swears under her breath.

“Well, at least we know how to get answers out of you.” Hawke’s smile is far from pleasant as he holds a hand out. Fenris approaches, light on his feet, a familiar box in his hands.

Cullen shakes his head. He would recognize that blight-cursed box anywhere. He knows the team interferes with lyrium shipments, he avoids those missions, but he never thought they kept any for themselves. He shakes his head but neither Hawke nor Fenris seem to care.

“You fought hard earlier today,” Hawke says, his voice deep, hypnotic. It lulls Cullen’s senses, slowly erodes his defenses like a wave lapping against the shore. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, but Hawke keeps talking. “It must have taken a lot out of you. How long until you need to replenish your stores?”

Hawke cracks open the box, enough for Cullen to glimpse the bottle of lyrium inside. Awareness crashes into him all at once; the aches in his joints, the pounding in his head, the low reserves of his energy. One hit and he would feel better. The whole bottle and he would be invincible. And what? All he has to do is answer some questions?

No. He hasn’t held out this long to give in  _ now _ . But what does it matter? He stopped the lyrium to be useful to the Inquisition. There’s no fucking Inquisition here. No, he stopped the lyrium because the Chantry was a lie, because it was corrupting the templars. Maker, give him strength.

Hawke takes another step forward. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Easy way, you tell us everything, you get what you need. Hard way...you hold out until we don’t even need to threaten you. The withdrawal will have you telling us everything you know.”

Flung backward in time to be tortured by the Champion of Kirkwall. How is this his life? Hawke raises the lid, moves, until all Cullen can see is the bottle. It’s small, would fit in the palm of his hand, and it could ruin everything.

“No!” Cullen flings himself backward, chair toppling over. He lands on his wrists, crushing them beneath his own weight. He curses at the pain, even though he’s grateful for the distraction.

“Enough,” Varric snaps. “Hawke, put that damn thing away. Fenris, help me right the chair.”

Fenris grumbles but does as he’s told. Cullen stares at the floor, but Varric pushes into his space until he has no choice but to look at him.

“Former templar, you said.”

Cullen huffs out a laugh. “You always were the smart one.”

“You don’t take lyrium anymore.” It isn’t a question so Cullen doesn’t answer. He can still hear the damn siren song, and his gaze is drawn toward Hawke and his box. Varric snaps his fingers and demands Cullen’s attention. “Why don’t we start this story from the beginning?”

“The beginning?” Cullen’s head lolls and he stares up at the ceiling. “The beginning puts us terribly out of order.”

Is this where he dies? He survives Kinloch, Kirkwall, the blasted world coming to an end, but it’s here, in Kirkwall a second time, he finally meets his end? It’s fitting, he supposes. Surviving Kirkwall once is something of a miracle. To do it twice?

“Why don’t we skip to the end?” Cullen’s vision is hazy, all his excitement finally catching up to him, but he does his best to focus on Varric. “Tell Bianca to make it quick, would you?”

The last thing he remembers is the pity in Varric’s gaze.

#

He wakes up, something he wasn’t entirely sure would happen. For a moment, he keeps his eyes closed, imagining the crisp air of Skyhold, the sun pouring through his open roof. He allows himself a small smile and then opens his eyes and embraces the pain. Because a boring, solid roof, sits over his head. The scent of fish and saltwater hangs in the air, even up here in Hightown.

There’s no ladder down to his office where piles of papers wait for him to read them, where questions wait for him to answer, where a world relies on him to keep it moving while the Inquisitor saves it.

Slumped in the chair next to his bed is Fenris, his marks completely dulled. Either he is asleep or he’s practicing his subterfuge. Cullen’s still in his nightshirt and since he doesn’t want to leave and spook his guard, he takes the time to tie the laces. There isn’t anything incriminating shown by the deep V except skin which usually is tucked behind layers of clothes and sometimes armor as well.

No, his incriminating marks are lower. A thick scar across his torso, the smaller ones, ways to mark his time with Uldred. On his other side magic burns from the fight with Meredith. He has fewer scars from his time with the Inquisition. He wasn’t as skittish about healing as he used to be. But still, there are stories to be told in the marks on his body.

After a few moments, he decides Fenris’s breathing is too even for it to be a true sleep. “How long are we going to pretend you’re not waiting for me to make a move?”

Fenris cracks his eyes open, narrowed slits which offer no forgiveness or compassion.

Cullen pushes to his feet. “I’m going to take a piss. You might want to keep a few feet back or I may be tempted to splash you.”

Fenris growls, a warning, one Cullen’s heard a dozen times before the man spins into battle, a frightening whirl of efficiency and ruthlessness. Cullen relieves himself and follows Fenris into the main room where his chair rests with no manacles to be seen. The rest of the party is here, waiting.

He spots the box in the corner of the room, no longer in Hawke’s hands, but they’re foolish if they think he wouldn’t know exactly where in the room the lyrium source was. Varric sighs which means he must have tried to convince them to toss it. They can’t use it as they planned, a carrot to dangle in front of him until he gave up his secrets. But it doesn’t mean it has no use.

Cullen is tired. He was tired in Skyhold, he was tired when they returned to the Temple of the Sacred Ashes, and, oddly enough, a jaunt through Kirkwall hasn’t replenished his strength.

He grabs Fenris’s hand and yanks the elf forward until his palm slaps against Cullen’s chest. “Do it. I don’t care if it’s painful. I don’t care if you drag it out. But this?” He motions to Hawke’s scowl and Isabela’s blade and the thrice-damned box. “I’ve been tortured. There’s nothing worse you can do to me that I haven’t survived.”

Fenris glows, the only warning before his hand punches into Cullen’s chest. Cullen gasps, shocked at first by the intrusion before pain pushes everything else out. He can feel Fenris’s hand where it doesn’t belong, feel his fingers curled around Cullen’s heart. He squeezes, a light touch, but enough to be a threat.

_ I hold your heart in my hand. I can end your life _ . Maybe it’s supposed to be frightening, but Cullen laughs. He laughs and laughs because isn’t this the story of his fucking life. How long did the Chantry hold his life in its grasp, ready to end him on a whim? And before then, even, Andraste herself. She holds them all in her grip, one twitch enough to end her children. Does she feel remorse when she does it? Or maybe remorse is what she feels as she toys with them and it’s Andraste’s mercy which makes her finally end it.

With great effort, Cullen wraps his fingers around Fenris’s arm and tugs. “Please.”

Fenris yanks his hand back, but he doesn’t clutch Cullen’s heart in his fist. Cullen drops to his knees, not even registering the pain as he thuds against the hard ground.  _ Maker, why? _

“He’s right,” Fenris says, his words directed at Hawke. “Torture won’t help. You can’t break something that’s already broken.”

“Alright, let’s try having a civilized conversation.” Varric steps forward, and Cullen instinctively moves back.

After a moment, he pauses. It’s useless. He’s exhausted and his body’s still trying to work correctly after Fenris’s...violation. He can’t outshuffle the dwarf. He slumps back on his elbows and grins. “You’re the good templar then? And Fenris is the bad one? I know how this game goes.”

“It isn’t a game.” Varric drops a blanket on his lap. “I liked you the first time I saw you in The Hanged Man, and I have good instincts. I think I could still like you. But we need some answers. What’s your name?”

Cullen wraps the blanket over his shoulders, life has taught him to accept what good things he can have, even if they won’t last long. Especially, because they won’t last long. He opens his mouth, prepared to give them the same answer he gave Fenris, but shuts it again. Partial truth? Full truth? Does he owe them anything? Will he even stay once they let him go? With no friends in Kirkwall, it doesn’t seem like a good place to stick around.

“And here I thought we were starting easy.” Varric sits down, a few feet from Cullen.

“I haven’t told you much about myself.” Cullen locks his gaze with Varric’s, because it’s easier than watching the others. “To be fair, you haven’t asked.”

Varric nods, conceding the point.

“I hoped to build your trust, hoped to form friendships so you didn’t kill me when I told you the truth.”

“You lied to us to gain our trust.” Hawke scoffs. “Original.”

“I haven’t lied.” He bristles and can hear Dorian mocking him in his head.  _ A fancy bit of work, Commander, but you are a liar. _ He brushes the man’s voice away. “My name is Cullen Stanton Rutherford.”

“That’s a mouthful,” Isabela says. She doesn’t leer at him, and he almost feels disappointed.

“It’s also a trick.” Hawke twirls his staff, a reminder of the threat he is underneath the dirt and sarcasm. “ _ Knight-Captain  _ Cullen Stanton Rutherford is a member of the templar order. You think I don’t know everything that goes on in my city?”

_ My city? You aren’t even the Champion yet. Though, I suppose this is why you don’t flinch when it’s handed to you.  _ “We are the same Cullen. A few years apart.” Cullen gestures to himself, the lines worn into his face, the exhaustion writ into his bones. His younger self is; well, younger. He’s recovering from Kinloch with no idea he’s running himself toward a new cliff edge.

“Demon?” Hawke asks as if he’s surveying the room.

“A washed up templar? That’s your heart’s desire? You have to dream a little bigger, Hawke.”

Varric glares at Cullen. “ _ Now _ , you decide to be a snarky pain in the ass?”

Cullen sighs. “Do you remember the Tevinter mage I told you about?”

“The one with the Qunari...friend.” Isabela nods. “What was a templar doing with a Tevinter mage?”

“Saving the world.” Cullen laughs even though it isn’t funny. “It was the final showdown. Or, at least we hoped so, we’d been wrong a few times before. There was magic, there were templars, there was red lyrium and darkspawn and a breach into the Fade. It was chaotic. Throw in a little time magic…” He still isn’t sure on all specifics. He doesn’t think he ever will be. “I woke up outside Kirkwall. You can imagine my displeasure at having to do this again.”

“Again.” Hawke’s voice holds enough disbelief for the entire room.

“My younger self. Original self? The other Cullen is living the life I had the first time, a good little templar, following Meredith into madness. And I’m here, even if I don’t know why.”

“Madness?” Varric asks.

“She finds red lyrium. She was...unstable before, but it preys on her worst attributes. Kirkwall becomes a powder keg, ready to explode. And, with the wrong spark, it does. Trying to set it to rights wasn’t easy. Not that I had the chance to see it through. Because what was one city when all of Thedas was threatened? My armor is hidden in my room. It bears the insignia of the Inquisition.”

“The Inquisition?” Varric shakes his head. “They haven’t called one of those in…”

“Exactly,” Cullen says. He leans back on the stone floor. Fortunately, he’s slept on enough hard surfaces at this point, it doesn’t transport him back to Kinloch. Sure, the memories are there, threatening to pull him under, but he knows where they are and can duck.

“You believe this?” Hawke asks.

“He isn’t a demon, he isn’t possessed, it sounds mad, but…” Varric shrugs. “It could be true.”

Isabela steps forward, but she keeps a careful distance between them. “The first time you saw Hawke, you called him the Champion of Kirkwall. I thought it was a joke.”

“It’s the title he was given after--” Cullen cuts himself off. “You know, I’m not sure how much I should be saying. I’ve disrupted the timeline simply by being here but--” He tugs on his hair. “I don’t know why I’m here. What am I supposed to change? What am I supposed to let happen? Andraste,  _ please _ !”

But, as always, no one answers his pleas. Slowly, he sits up, refusing to make eye contact with anyone in the room. “The manacles are gone. Am I no longer a prisoner?”

No one answers.

He pushes to his feet. He collects his sword and his shield from the floor and Isabela doesn’t stop him. He walks out the door, down the hall, and no one follows. Not a prisoner, not a coworker, not a friend. Not real? He makes it to his room, and no, it was never his, was it? He carved it out, stole it,  _ imposter _ .

He packs a bag. His armor, some coin. The rest he leaves on the bed, belated rent payment. He shoves what he can into his knapsack, wears the rest or leaves it. He’ll do what he should’ve done when he first landed outside of Kirkwall. Go anywhere but this damned city. Maybe Cassandra. No, she’s too practical to believe in time travel. Leliana? Surely she’s heard whispers of such a thing.

Maybe he’ll go to fucking Tevinter and track down Dorian. Beg him to send him back. He doesn’t care if it’s his fate to be gored by a darkspawn or leap in front of an arrow meant for the Inquisitor.

“Where are you going?” Fenris leans against the doorway, not yet stepping foot into the room.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re running away?”

Cullen flinches, regrets it, decides he doesn’t care what weaknesses he exposes. He won’t stick around long enough for Fenris to use them against him. “You were right. I’m broken. But I was finally starting to do some good. And now I’m  _ here _ .” He slams his fist down on the table and his comb falls to the ground. He picks it up and shoves it into his pocket. “I never thought I’d be here again.”

“Perhaps you didn’t finish your work, here. You have a second chance, or a purpose, you say you don’t know what it is. What happened when you were in Kirkwall?”

“It went to shit. I started to fix it, me and Aveline both. We were finally making headway when the Conclave happened. From there, it was a quick spiral into death, gloom, the rest of it. I...don’t even know what happened to Kirkwall.”

“Maybe you’re here to help us.” Fenris steps toward him and Cullen takes an instinctive step back. The elf tilts his head, regards him carefully. “I carry lyrium in my body. Does it bother you?”

“I would feel its pull whether you were here or not.”

“Is it a danger to you?”

Cullen shakes his head. “However it was put into you, I cannot access it. I don’t  _ want  _ to access it. You are safe from me. In this one way, at least.”

“There is more to your story, but I understand your reluctance to share it. Varric wants you to stay. Isabela’s wondering if it’s too soon to hit on you again. Hawke has a quick fuse, but he forgives easily.”

“And you?”

Fenris glances at the room, it would appear like the others, empty and unused except for the lack of dust coating every surface. “I have bigger bedrooms.”


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke throws himself into the fight as if he’s wearing full armor rather than flimsy mage robes. Cullen reminds himself, again, to talk to the man about wearing something less obvious. There are ways to pass the staff off as something which isn’t obviously a mage weapon, but the robes are a dead giveaway.

Hawke slams his staff on the ground and the ground ripples beneath their feet. It trips up the enemy, and Fenris and Cullen sweep through to finish them before they can regain their footing. Once they cut through the guards, they reach the inner circle.

A woman in mage’s robes clutches a young girl to her chest. She holds a knife to the girl’s throat and even though her hand trembles, she doesn’t want to do this, there’s a steely determination in his gaze. Ah, yes, mages with their backs up against the wall. Cullen’s favorite.

“Step back and leave us alone,” the woman.

“Mama, what’s happening?”

“Shh, these bad men are here to take you away.” She points a finger at Cullen. “He’s a templar. Do you know what templars do to mages?”

Tears well up in the girl’s eyes. “I don’t want to lose you, mama.”

“You won’t sweetheart. I promise.” She raises her knife, prepared to sacrifice her daughter for...her freedom? Something darker? Cullen suppresses her magic, not that she’s done anything yet, but the shock is enough to freeze her long enough for Fenris to dart in and kill the mother before she can harm her child.

The little elven girl gasps and stumbles backwards. “Mama?”

A demon bursts out of the mother’s corpse and the girl screams as Cullen ushers her behind him where she’s out of danger. He charges in, sword raised high. Together, he and Fenris keep the demon’s attention, slashing and stabbing, while Hawke throws magic at it.

When the battle is over, Cullen stinks of ash and sulphur and there’s demon goo on his arms. The little girl is hiding behind Hawke’s skirts, clinging to the fabric. Cullen approaches, sword sheathed, his hands outstretched.

“I’m not a templar,” he tells her. “I understand you’re scared, but we want to help you. Do you know who your father is?”

The girl touches the pointed tips of her ears. “Mama’s family didn’t like him. I don’t know where he is.”

“There are two places you can go. You can live in the alienage with the other elves in Kirkwall. Or, we can venture beyond the walls and see if one of the nearby Dalish clans would like an addition.”

“You can’t let her choose,” Hawke says. “She’s a child.”

“It’s her life,” Fenris argues.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” she says. “Mama said the Dalish were scary. If I was bad, they would steal me away.”

“Sometimes mothers tell stories.” Hawke crouches down so he’s closer to the girl’s height. “My mother used to tell me if I misbehaved, Andraste would know and wouldn’t protect me from demons slipping in my windows.”

“How come it didn’t work?” Fenris asks.

“I hung holy symbols above my windows and doors for protection. But hush, I’m trying to relate right now.” He turns his attention back to the girl. “I know the Keeper. She’s a bit stern, but she’s nice. We can talk to her and if you don’t like it, we’ll bring you back here. How does that sound?”

She nods. “Okay. Do we have to go now? My legs are tired.”

Cullen kneels, his back to her. “Climb on, little one. We’ll help you out of here.”

When they emerge from the small house, the sun has almost set. It’s too late to depart for the Sabrae clan today. Cullen parts ways with his companions to bring the girl to the manor. There’s no sense in bringing a girl to a tavern. Besides, with each step, she leans more on his back and her grip around his neck loosens. She’ll be asleep within minutes.

By the time he enters the mansion, through the front door, he’s holding the child in his arms. There’s a hallway of bedrooms to the left, one for Fenris, one for Cullen, two mostly tidied up in case of visitors. Cullen tucks her into the bed Hawke crashes in when he stays. Why Hawke doesn’t take the five minutes to go to his own home, Cullen doesn’t understand.

The girl blinks her eyes open and smile sleepily as Cullen pulls the blanket up to her chin. “I’m Namara.”

“Nice to meet you.” He brushes the brown hair out of her eyes. “I’m Cullen. I’m going to sleep outside your door tonight. If you need anything, you can shout.”

“No demons will get me while you’re here.”

“Exactly.”

He offers her a smile and she matches it before drifting off to sleep. Cullen makes a makeshift bed on the floor and lies down, his sword at his side. There are few things he hates more in this world than blood magic. A woman willing to kill her own child just for a boost of power? It makes him wish Fenris hadn’t given her such an easy death.

At least Namara is safe. He’s confident Hawke’s connections will secure her a place amongst the Dalish. He can only hope they offer her the childhood she deserves.

#

“Daisy’s coming with you,” Isabela says, smirking over breakfast the next morning.

One of the benefits to being an invited guest in Fenris’s mansion is the use of his kitchens. And, on occasions such as this, Hawke’s servants preparing breakfast for them. They somehow seem to know when Hawke crashes at Fenris’s, and they usually have food and a change of clothes ready by the time Hawke stumbles out of bed.

Today, Namara sits next to Cullen, quiet and withdrawn as she pokes at her oatmeal.

Cullen doesn’t think to ask who Daisy is and maybe he should have, because it catches him off guard when a slight elven girl with wide eyes enters the room.

“You?” he demands before he can help it. “Merrill is Daisy?” He hadn’t recognized her at The Hanged Man, but today is a good day, he remembers things.

“You know Merrill?” Hawke asks.

Cullen knows Hawke sometimes does things without thinking them through, but this? “You are bringing her on our trip given how everything went down yesterday?” A blood mage when Namara’s mother almost killed her using blood magic? Seriously? Not to mention,  _ Cullen  _ doesn’t want to be near Merrill. His scars ache, reminder of what happens when he’s around blood mages. He tries to smooth the scowl off his face.

“Ah, uh,” Hawke scratches the back of his head. “It was her turn to come on an adventure? And you know the alienage, very stifling. Fresh air is good for the young.”

Merrill turns her wide, sad eyes on Cullen, but he isn’t swayed. When he was stationed at Kinloch, his role was to act as slayer if needed during the Harrowings. There’s no look or story or touch which can overcome his common sense or his duty. She looks away first.

Cullen coaxes Namara to finish her oatmeal before they head out. Like yesterday, Namara cons a ride out of Cullen, and he allows her to clamber up on his back even as Isabela grins.

“A softie? You must make all the girls swoon. I really did think you and Daisy would get along. Blushing and stuttering over everything the world has to offer.”

Isabela doesn’t know Cullen’s full past so she doesn’t know why Cullen won’t get along with “Daisy”. And even though Cullen’s shared much since the night he fought off slavers in the manor, he hasn’t told his new crew everything.

Cullen falls into step with Fenris who, as far as he can tell, doesn’t care much for Merrill either. Fenris doesn’t acknowledge his walking partner until Namara leans over to touch his ear. “We match.”

“We do.”

“How come I can’t stay with him?” This question is for Cullen, or, at least he assumes it is since Namara accompanies the question with a tug on his hair. “You stay with him. It’s a big house.”

Cullen looks to Fenris for an answer, but the elven warrior is staring straight ahead. No help to be found there. Cullen tucks his hands under Namara’s legs to help support her. “We live a dangerous life.”

“The Dalish live a dangerous life and you’re sending me there.”

“To be with people like yourself.”

“We have matching ears.”

Cullen is reminded that there’s no winning a conversation with a child. “You’ll be happy with the Dalish.”

“Will they make me oatmeal and carry me places?”

Fenris snorts but when Cullen looks over at him, there isn’t even a hint of a smile on his face. He’s tempted to poke the elf and demand help, but Namara tugs on his hair and asks him about dogs, and Cullen tells her about his pet mabari.

The conversation lasts them all the way up the hill to where the Sabrae clan makes their home. Merrill’s met with suspicion and outright hostility by some. Once again, Cullen wonders why Hawke brought her along. She seems oblivious to it, humming to herself as she looks around.

Namara clings to Cullen as Keeper Marethari approaches. The elder woman smiles and holds a hand out in greeting. “You must be Namara. Your friends sent word of your visit.”

“Friends?” Namara pokes Cullen’s cheek. “Are we friends?”

“If you’d like to be.”

Namara nods. “Will you write to me too? I’ve been learning.”

“Come,” Keeper Marethari says. “I will introduce you to the other children.”

Namara is hesitant to slide down from her perch but after a promise Cullen will write and a quick hug, she bounds off. Keeper Marethari sees her safely to the children and returns, her smile from earlier replaced with a more serious expression. “We are not a refugee camp, Hawke.”

“Her father was an elf. For all we know, he’s with a Dalish clan. Her mother died trying to kill her. Let the girl have a family which wants her and doesn’t try to hurt her.”

The Keeper sighs. “While you’re here, we have some caves with an infestation problem.”

“Spiders?” Hawke groans. “I hate spiders.”

“Go,” the Keeper says.

They go.

#

When they finish, Cullen and Fenris are covered in spider goo. Merrill and Hawke, as range fighters, are gunk free. Isabela made an excuse and didn’t even come into the cave. It means everyone gives Cullen and Fenris a wide berth on their path down the mountain.

“Our first job together, you rescued children.” It’s an observation, one Cullen decides to ignore, but for once, Fenris has decided to pursue a subject. “You placed them in the care of your other self.”

“Children are innocent. They don’t deserve Kirkwall’s evils.”

“Do you plan to have a home full of children when your work is finished?”

“Every time I think my work is finished, the Maker gives me another task.” Cullen recognizing his own obstinacy, sighs. “I cannot have children.”

“Do templars take vows?”

“No. And for once it isn’t the lyrium causing me trouble.” Cullen’s laugh is choked and bitter. “There was an...incident in my youth.” It’s a kind way to refer to Kinloch, but even if he doesn’t name the event out loud, he still remembers. He shudders and knows Fenris picks up on it. “I cannot have children.”

“Ah.”

They lapse into silence. Cullen’s grateful Fenris doesn’t offer up meaningless platitudes. There was a time, Cullen thought he’d have a family, louder and larger than the one he grew up with. He would be a model templar, would earn favor amongst the Order, and, after he served well and faithfully, he would be discharged to a quiet chantry where he could raise a family.

It’s a dream lost to him after Kinloch, one of the many things lost there. The healers didn’t know if it was the magic or the torture or some combination of the two, but they were all agreed. He would keep his scars, a mark of blood magic he would carry for the rest of his life. One of the healers speculated he lived as long as he had because the blood mages sucked the life from him before they took his blood. Another healer suggested he’d always been...deficient.

In any event, a bustling family isn’t in his future. Neither is a quiet retirement. Post-Kirkwall, when he went off the lyrium, he knew he was submitting himself to one of two fates. He would eventually succumb to his addiction, waste away, longing for the one thing that will kill him. Or he would give in to the temptation, take lyrium until it rotted his brain. He supposes there is a third option, die while he’s still young.

They make it back to the city, and Fenris and Cullen break off from the rest so they can bathe. They reach the manor and Fenris clears his throat, a hint of color on his cheeks. “You know I use the manor as little as possible, correct?”

Cullen has a good idea of where this is headed. “You only have one working bath.”

“I have one working hot water heater. It can fill two tubs but...only if they’re in the same room.”

“I was a templar,” Cullen reminds him. “I’ve been unclothed in front of others before.”

“Don’t let Isabela hear you talk that way or she’ll make lewd comments about templar training for the next month.”

Despite only having one hot water faucet, there are two large tubs in the bathing room. Fenris sets the first to fill and looks down at his clothes with mild distaste. Cullen sighs but fetches a bucket, a washing rack and a bar of soap. Stripping down to his smalls and scrubbing his clothes is almost familiar. It reminds him of the Inquisition, of templar training, of nearly every part of his life.

Once they’re scrubbed, he wrings out the worst of the water and hangs them to dry. He holds his hand out for Fenris’s clothes. He isn’t surprised when the elf hands them over without complaint. By the time the spider guts are gone and Fenris’s clothes hang next to his, both tubs are full.

He climbs into his, and Fenris doesn’t politely avert his gaze the way a fellow trainee or soldier would. But his gaze doesn’t linger on the places Isabela’s would. Instead, he stares at the neat little scars lining Cullen’s torso.

“I can suggest to Hawke to keep you and Merrill off the same jobs.”

“It was a long time ago.” Cullen sinks into the hot water and breathes out slowly, his muscles grateful for the help relaxing. “I will not deny, she makes me nervous, puts me on my guard, but it is my issue to handle. Unless...has she done anything to warrant intervention?”

“Not yet. My former master and apprentice were quite adept with blood magic. I recognize the dangers. Hawke, despite his grumpy exterior, likes to believe in the best in people. I have seen their worst too often to extend the same courtesy.”

“I joined the templars because I thought it was the right thing to do.” Cullen leans back and closes his eyes. It’s easier to speak into darkness. “I saw firsthand the horrors of mages who lost their way. I became...fanatical. An example of what happens when templars lose their way. There needs to be a balance in the world, but I cannot trust myself to determine what that balance looks like.”

“The Kirkwall templars. This is where you lost your faith.”

Cullen doesn’t answer, but it’s answer enough.

“Perhaps here is where you’ll find it again.”

#

The next morning, they join Hawke and his household for breakfast. Fenris kicks his feet up on an empty chair as he reclines with his bowl of porridge. “Cullen bathed yesterday. Which means it’s not a Ferelden aversion to cleanliness but something unique to you.”

Hawke splutters and tries to defend himself as Fenris holds a serious expression. His lips twitch at the corners, clearly teasing, and Cullen can’t help but join in. “To be fair, if you asked him to bathe alongside you, I doubt he would refuse.”

“You bathed  _ together _ ?” Hawke’s eyebrows climb upward.

“That is quite the active imagination you have,” Cullen says. He waits for Hawke’s cheeks to flush as red as the mark across his nose before he takes pity. “Separate tubs. Everything was completely decent.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Isabela.” Fenris clucks his tongue and it’s Cullen’s turn to almost break into laughter.

It takes Hawke a moment to catch up, but his mouth falls open as he looks from Fenris to Cullen. “Are you two... _ ganging up on me _ ?”

“You’re quite the formidable opponent,” Fenris says, in his grave monotone. “It takes two of us.”

Cullen is the one who cracks, bursting into laughter, far too loud for this early in the morning. Fenris joins in a moment later. Hawke stares at them as if they’re a rare and precious metal, no, Cullen’s seen him when he’s found something unique on their treasure hunts. This is something deeper. His smile is tentative, hopeful, as if he’s afraid of shattering the moment.

“Are you two  _ happy _ ? Forget a Ferelden bathing, this is the true miracle.”


	6. Chapter 6

Relations with the Qunari are growing strained and while it’s the mages and templars which brought Kirkwall down, the Qunari didn’t help things. Cullen spends some time worrying over what to do about the Qunari. His memory isn’t perfect, a side effect of his lyrium intake, but he knows why the Qunari are here and why they haven’t left.

He calls the main group to Hawke’s house; Hawke, Fenris, Varric, Isabela, and himself. For some reason, Merrill shows up, but Anders doesn’t so Cullen counts it as a win. He’s still not entirely sure what to do about Anders. If he was a templar, he would cut the mage down without a thought. He’s no longer a templar, but the solution still calls to him. Anders is dangerous. He brought this city to the brink once before, he could do it again.

First, the Qunari.

“No drinks to start us off?” Varric asks. When Cullen doesn’t crack a smile he raises his eyebrows. “Serious, then.”

“I have not told you much of my past, what could possibly be your future.” Cullen hesitates and everyone sits up straighter as if they realize the day is about to become more interesting. Cullen huffs out a small laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “Kirkwall faces many problems. But right now, the greatest threat to peace and order are the Qunari. In my Kirkwall, they converted the Viscount’s son, started a war in the streets, murdered the Viscount, and were only taken down after Hawke challenged him to one-on-one combat and succeeded. It’s what gave him the title Champion of Kirkwall. I have...hesitated to interfere with your previous path, but there is a lot of death and bloodshed we could avoid.”

“I’d give up a dozen titles if it meant saving lies. But the Qunari are here to stay.”

“No.” Cullen’s fingers itch for a war table, for maps and pieces to move, so he can plot strategy and  _ show  _ when his words aren’t enough. “The Qunari are here for something they lost. The Tome of Koslun, it’s one of their sacred texts. If we can return it to them, they’ll leave.”

Isabela flinches, a small movement, but Cullen isn’t the only one who spots it.

“Isabela?” Hawke leans forward. “Do you have a lead on this book?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t still be here.” Isabela crosses her arms over her chest. Distantly, Cullen notes it makes her less of a threat, too much extra time to reach her blades. She casts a narrowed glance in his direction. “You want the relic?”

“The Qunari want the relic and I want them gone.” Cullen taps his fingers on the table. “It’s a holy artifact and had gone missing long ago. It was to be returned to them which is why the Arishok and his men were here. But Tevinter also wanted the book, leverage in their ongoing war with the Qunari. The tome was stolen, the Qunari crashed here, and they have vowed to stay in Kirkwall until they have their possession returned. It wouldn’t be an issue except, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, the Arishok and his men don’t like Kirkwall.”

“No one likes Kirkwall,” Varric says.

“In my time, they decided it was their duty to cleanse our city.” Cullen catches Varric gaze and holds it for a moment. Varric is the first to look away. “I would like to avoid a repeat. We need to find the tome and return it to the Arishok and hope he leaves without any parting gifts.  _ Then  _ we can put our city to rights.”

“You’re full of all sorts of big ideas,” Varric says.

Cullen allows himself a small smile. “I have friends now.”

“You’re going to have one fewer soon.” Isabela pounds her fist on the table, but she doesn’t seem inclined to spread her anger outward. “I…” She stands up and storms away from the table. She doesn’t go far, and she spins to face them, her usual good cheer gone. “I owe a man a debt. One I can never repay. In order to keep my head firmly attached to my shoulders, I have to find and deliver the relic to him.”

“That’s some debt,” Varric says.

Isabela stares at her feet as she says, “I took a job. Simple. Transport some cargo. They didn’t tell me who the cargo would be. I, uh, interfered with his profits. And I’ve had a price on my head ever since.”

Fenris curls his hands into fists, his marks lighting up. It’s obvious from context Isabela’s cargo was people. Cullen wishes he could still be surprised by the evils in their world. At least Isabela made the right choice. And, just maybe, this is the group which will whittle away at Thedas’s worst. He and Aveline made slow, steady progress after Anders. But this many hands, working before red lyrium and a mage rebellion could poison things almost beyond saving?

First, the Qunari. He has a feeling it will be his mantra until they track down this tome.

“In case you’re wondering, this is why I look out for myself first now.” Isabela’s harsh tones is at odds with the softness around her eyes. She talks a big game but, even knowing the consequences, Cullen thinks she’d make the same choice again.

“You’ve been searching for this tome, then,” Hawke says. “What leads can you give us?”

Isabela sighs, the fight seemingly going out of her. “If I had a reliable lead, I would’ve already gotten the relic and been done with this nonsense.”

“Isabela,” Hawke says.

“Fine. Like Pretty Boy said, everyone wants this damn book. The person, or people who have it, are either waiting to see if the price goes up or hoping some of the heat will come off it. The Qunari won’t pay for it, they might promise riches, but they’ll kill whoever took their relic. Which means the thieves are trying to wring more money out of their Tevinter buyers.”

“Ah, yes, extorting magisters. Always a good idea.” Fenris rolls his eyes. “I assume our first step is to find the Tevinter underground in Kirkwall.” A slow, terrifying smile spreads across his face. “I welcome the challenge.”

“I’ll speak with the Arishok.” Hawke slouches even more which means he knows he’s about to propose something absurd and hopes his nonchalance will trick everyone into not reacting. “He and I are...buddies. If I tell him I’m going this favor for him, he’ll share what leads his has.”

“Bring Varric with you,” Cullen says. “And don’t try to turn this into a contract. It’s a bribe. You give him the book, he and his people leave.”

“Yes,  _ Commander _ ,” Hawke says petulantly.

Cullen didn’t tell them about the Inquisition, at least not his role in it. Hawke picking that word, of all those in their language to mock him with...Cullen flinches and doesn’t cover it in time.

“Cullen,” Hawke is off-kilter, it must be all the emotions in the room.

Cullen waves off whatever bumbling apology he intends to make. “I apologize for overstepping. You are the leader of our group. I will defer to your expertise and instruction.”

Hawke groans. “Quit being difficult. Everyone else, do what Cullen said. He seems to actually have a brain in his head, unlike the rest of us.”

“Speak for yourself.” Varric slides off his chair. “Come on Ser Foot-in-his-mouth. We have an audience with the Arishok. And then you’re buying an entire night’s worth of drinks.”

“Hey, remember that time you dragged me to the Deep Roads and your brother locked us in with the darkspawn?”

Their voices grow distant as they leave the house until their bickering is too far away to hear. Fenris stands, his lyrium marks humming with a low, excited light. Cullen doesn’t have to ask if he’s looking forward to his assignment.

“Do you want to bring someone with you?” Cullen asks. “Sebastian? Aveline?”

“Not me?” Merrill asks.

“I’m tracking down blood mages for information. Would you like to come with me?” Fenris’s smile is far from friendly. Isabela smacks his shoulder, not hard, but it’s enough for Fenris to duck his head, playing at contrite even if Cullen doesn’t think it’s genuine. “I’ll be fine on my own. Aveline is too lawful for what I intend to do, and if Sebastian prays over my kills one more time, I may finally give in to the temptation to strangle him.”

“Anders?” Isabela suggests with a sugary sweet smile. Apparently, she’s found her sass again.

“Anders doesn’t like it when you kill mages,” Merrill says.

Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s almost like being back in Skyhold as the children, sorry,  _ Inner Circle of the Inquisition _ , bickered over what action to take next. He finds himself looking for her, the Inquisitor, his ears perked for her voice, smooth, melodic, but brooking no patience for bullshit. Sometimes, she’d let them argue, because they needed to let off some steam, sometimes because she wanted to know all her options. But when it was time for a decision, she would make it and no one would question.

Hawke is a different kind of leader. Cullen’s not certain he would dedicate his life, his death, everything he has to offer to the man and his cause (does he even have a cause?), but it’s certainly better than being on his own.

“Fenris is on a solo mission,” Cullen says.

“Orders really do come naturally to you.” Isabela looks him over, part flirting, part serious. When he first met her, he would’ve missed the second part, too caught up blushing or stammering. But now he knows she uses her aggression as a cover for her information gathering. “What do you plan to do while we run around?” She nudges Merrill forward as if reminding Cullen he hasn’t given everyone a task. “How’s your mirror coming along?”

The blight-cursed mirror. Cullen’s calm strains at the edges, but he forces a smile. “Kirkwall’s problems don’t stop because we have a big job. Anyone who isn’t working on the Tome of Koslun will keep our operation running. Merrill and I will see Sebastian and check the Chantry board for anything we can help with.”

“ _ My hero _ .” Isabela flutters her eyelashes and bounds out before Cullen can do more than grumble.

Fenris glances at Merrill then Cullen, a flicker of pity his gaze. But he abandons Cullen to a day babysitting an unrepentant blood mage and a self-righteous priest so he can’t feel all that bad.

Cullen rummages through the leftover breakfast, taking anything they can transport with ease. “Should we stop by the alienage or the orphanage on our way?”

“Anders says it doesn’t help.” Merrill peers over his shoulder as he fills a bag with what food he can. “He says a band-aid doesn’t cure the blight.”

“So we should sit back and do nothing?”

Merrill shrugs. “I’m only telling you what Anders told me. He says mages deserve better than what Thedas gives them. He wants to use Kirkwall to show how it can be.”

Cullen hands Merrill a loaf of bread. “We start small. And then we grow. We take the structure we have but make it better. Anders wants to blow up the whole thing and start over.”

Merrill dogs his heels as they begin their journey to the Chantry. “You don’t think we should?”

“Have you ever seen an explosion?” Cullen doesn’t wait for her answer. “You can’t control who it hits, lots of friendly fire. And there’s chaos afterward. It’s better to change than wipe the slate clean.”

“Sometimes Anders frightens me,” Merrill says as if she doesn’t willingly consort with demons when she feels like it.

Cullen turns them toward the Chantry-run orphanage.

#

Cullen’s day with Merrill and Sebastian turns into three days with Merrill and Sebastian. They take down a desire demon which doesn’t act as much of a warning for Merrill as Cullen would like and leads to a long lecture from Sebastian which belongs behind a pulpit and not at a bar. Still, it’s good work, and Cullen even invites the two back to Hawke’s mansion for dinner.

At some point, he should bring up that he and Fenris basically live in Hawke’s mansion and it would be in the best interests of all to consolidate their living arrangements, but he’s waiting for a time when Fenris won’t bolt at the thought of commitment and Hawke has something in his mouth. Ale would be good, for the spray radius. Or maybe those salty seeds he’s been popping lately. They would be an interesting projectile.

Raised voices make him slow his steps outside the dining room.

“This isn’t a good idea, Isabela.” It’s Hawke speaking and for  _ him _ to be the voice of reason? Cullen’s curious.

“It isn’t fair for me to be the only one dredging up my past. I--” Isabela’s lips curve up into a satisfied smile as Cullen ushers his two charges into the room. “Babysitter’s back.”

Cullen would cuss her out, but he catches sight of their guest and all his words die in his throat. Because, sitting stiffly in front of a meat pie, is himself. Well, his younger self. His hair is thicker, the lines on his face are less pronounced, and he’s staring at Cullen with open shock.

It’s odd to watch him compose himself, a flash of panic and then the cool mask is dropped into place. If Cullen didn’t know him so well, he’d miss the pinch around his eyes which suggests he isn’t as calm as he wants to appear.

“Demon?” his younger self asks.

“No.”

Younger-Cullen considers this. “Fade manipulation?”

“No.” Cullen allows himself a tiny smile. “Not a prank of Samson’s either.”

Younger-Cullen starts to smile before he catches himself. He peers into the cup beside his plate. “Hallucinogen?”

“Let’s take a walk,” Cullen suggests. “I’ll answer your questions away from busybody pirates.”

“You think you could kiss before you go?” Isabela asks.

Younger-Cullen flushes a mottled red and almost knocks his plate over. Cullen gives him what privacy he can by looking over at Hawke. They exchange a glance which boils down to Cullen asking for some time alone to speak with his counterpart but acknowledging backup would be nice. Hopefully, Hawke interprets it correctly and elects himself as shadow.

Cullen brings his younger self to Fenris’s mansion. He laughs a little as Younger-Cullen wrinkles his nose at the corpse. “It’s to dissuade visitors and squatters.”

“Does it work?”

“It didn’t keep me away.” Cullen leads them to the sitting room which joins to his bedroom. “You haven’t asked the obvious yet. Are we related?”

“No.” Younger-Cullen fiddles with the knife strapped to his belt. “You’re very calm about this.”

“I knew we were both in Kirkwall. Believe me, I wasn’t calm when I first found out what happened. Which, since I’m sure you won’t guess correctly, was time magic.”

“Time magic.” Younger-Cullen’s voice is flat, no question in it.

“Messy business. But it explains why I’m you but about ten years older.”

“And if I reject your premise?”

_ You won’t kill me _ , Cullen thinks. “How long has Samson been out of the Order? I suppose it doesn’t matter. He has doubts about the Order. He helped smuggle letters between templars and mages. He even let mages escape sometimes so they can have a better life. Being an apostate isn’t easy, but we both know what it’s like to be in Kirkwall’s circle.”

Younger-Cullen juts his chin out, stubborn. “It isn’t the worst circle.”

“No, that honor goes to Kinloch.” Cullen’s gaze pins his counterpart in his chair. “Do you want to keep playing this game? I am you. I can tell you every single detail I know you’re desperately trying to forget.”

“Demon,” Younger-Cullen accuses again. His voice wavers and there’s a sheen of sweat along his forehead.

“It would be easier if I was. You could kill me, tell yourself it was for the good of Thedas, and continue blindly with your life. Or, you could listen to me.”

“Listen to myself.” Younger-Cullen shakes himself as if he’s hoping this is some kind of dream.

Cullen waits patiently for Younger-Cullen to realize he’s still here. “I’ve lived Kinloch, I’ve lived Kirkwall, I’ve lived beyond Kirkwall. It took a lot of pain and suffering, of others mostly, for me to realize some things. Maybe you can learn them earlier.”

Younger-Cullen scoffs with the bravado of youth. Cullen’s heart aches, remembering when he thought he knew everything. He was a  _ templar _ , he dedicated his life to all that was good and just and right. And then he stood by while Meredith committed atrocities and did nothing.

“You have every reason to fear mages.” Cullen looks away, giving his younger self privacy as he flinches. “But you are still a templar. Your calling is to protect, yes others from mages, but also mages from others.” Now, he catches his own gaze. “Tell me honestly, are Knight-Commander Meredith and the Kirkwall templars doing what’s best for their mages?”

“They--” Younger-Cullen’s protests falter and die on his tongue. “You already know the answer.”

“So do you.”

A shudder now, not a flinch. Younger-Cullen’s shoulders curve forward, with the weight of their past and the responsibility Cullen drops on him. “What am I supposed to do?”

“What you swore to do. Protect those in your care.” Cullen didn’t become Commander of the entire Inquisition without learning how to lead. He backs off slightly, softens his tone. “You know the dangers of mages. But why do they become dangerous?”

“Power.” The first answer comes immediately. The second takes more time. “Fear.”

“Exactly.” Warmth and praise infuse the word, and Cullen can’t watch as his younger self responds to it, perking up like a plant desperate for sunlight. “Think of the treatment of the mages here. How many think power could ease their suffering? How many are terrified of what the templars do to them?”

“We’re the ones turning them into abominations.” Younger-Cullen bows his head, accepting the failure. But then he straightens, steel in his eyes and his spine. “There has to be a better way. Did you find it?”

“I was trying before something else came up.”

“More important?”

Cullen’s lips tug up in a smile. “The end of the world.”

“Ah.” Younger-Cullen nods, accepting this as a reason to set aside his Kirkwall duty. “Did you succeed?”

“We were in the final battle when a combination of things sent me back here. I like to believe they succeeded.” Cullen’s hands tremble, and he folds them to hide the worst of it, but he isn’t quick enough.

Younger-Cullen catches it, and his brow furrows. “You--ah. You have no connections. I could, that is, I mean, I know--”

Cullen shakes his head. “I don’t partake anymore. Things happened in Kirkwall which opened my eyes. The Order was not what I thought it was. It has been quite some time since I took lyrium.”

“But--” Younger-Cullen’s lips part and his eyes widen. “No one does it willingly. It’s a punishment.”

“And one I deserve. It is not a decision I would make for anyone, but I would ask you to consider it as well. Have they told you what happens after prolonged exposure?”

Younger-Cullen nods. “But we vowed to give everything to the Order. Our obedience, our faith, our lives if needed. You speak of blasphemy.”

“So I do.” Cullen turns his palms over and watches the fine trembling turn into shaking. “Once, I was you, but you will never be me. Our paths are our own to walk. May Andraste guide your way.”

“And yours as well.” Younger-Cullen, sensing the blessing for the dismissal it was, exits the room, leaving Cullen alone at the table.

A moment later, Hawke drops into the empty seat. He drops a platter of food between them, hard cheeses, soft bread, grapes, a collection of meat pies. “He seems like a good kid.”

Cullen scoffs. “He’s an idiot. He’s hurting and thinks he’s the only one. It blinds him to everything around him and by the time he opens his eyes, it’s too late.”

“Harsh.” Hawke plucks a grape from the bunch and pops it into his mouth. He glances at Cullen, too much compassion in his gaze, and Cullen stares down at his hands.

#

“So, what was it like?” Isabela swings the tassels on the end of her belt as she grins. “Was it like looking in a mirror and realizing you needed to use more Tevinter lotion? Or was it like masturbating?”

“Merrill’s too young for this,” Anders says. He turns a pleading look on Hawke which suggests Anders is also too young for this.

_ Too young for sex but old enough for murder and mayhem?  _ Cullen’s judgement is followed quickly by shame and guilt. How old was he when he committed atrocities? And he didn’t even have the excuse of being an apostate or an abomination. It’s a wonder they don’t lock up everyone, mage and non-mage alike. True, he doesn’t have magic or connections to the Fade, but he can still cause plenty of destruction. Why does the Maker continue with this farce of creation?

Hawke clears his throat, ending the squabble and pulling Cullen from his thoughts. “Updates on the tome. I’ll go first. The Arishok doesn’t know where it is, and he’s quite grumpy about it. Sidenote, he kept grumbling alarming things about our pisspot of a city and how it needed a firmer hand. Also, I think he might be trying to convert the Viscount’s son?”

“One problem at a time,” Varric says. “My contacts have turned up half a dozen thieves and other unsavory characters who are after the tome. No one knows where it is which is unfortunate.”

“Wall-Eyed Sam.” Isabela inspects her nails as if she hasn’t given them crucial information. “Supposedly he  _ has  _ the relic. He hides in Lowtown, scurrying into his hole like a rat. It’s a funny story, actually. He has the relic, but he doesn’t know how to fence it, and he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it for him. So he’s sitting on the most valuable item in all of Kirkwall. He doesn’t venture out in the day anymore. Too afraid.”

“Tragic story, really.” Hawke drops one booted foot to the ground, then a second. “Let’s give him a happy ending. He can part with his cursed relic, see the sun again. And we can solve the Qunari problem.”

“We can’t assume we’re the only ones who have this knowledge.” Fenris’s quiet voice cuts through their group. “We should bring a large party, armed and prepared for hostilities. There is a Tevinter presence in Kirkwall, and they’re preparing for something big.”

“I do love a party,” Hawke says. “Alright, all hands on deck for this one. Varric, you get the word out. I’m going to eat. You should never do crime on an empty stomach.”

#

Cullen breaks out his armor for the occasion. True, he’s slower with it on, but he’d rather sacrifice a bit of speed for the protection it’ll give. He sits in one of the empty rooms and polishes his armor, the familiar task soothing. Fighting off thieves and smugglers, killing slavers, it’s kept him busy but this is a true challenge.

He hums to himself as he traces over the Inquisition sigil on his breastplate.  _ You would be proud of me, I think _ . Cassandra, certainly, for seeing what’s right and pursuing it. Leliana for taking the time to find allies and explore all options before jumping in. The Inquisitor, even, because she was always so concerned with what Cullen wanted.  _ If you don’t want to take lyrium, it is your choice, and I will support you. If you want your roof repaired, I’ll put our best men and women on it right away. If you need a warmer cloak, I can hunt down a bear for you _ . She was a woman with all of Thedas resting on her shoulders and she still found the time to get to know each of her advisors.

He even heard rumors from his soldiers of a woman who drifted between their firepits, sitting down long enough to learn their names and hear a story before moving on. They never learned anything about her, but Cullen could guess who their mysterious visitor was. She cared. Such a simple thing and yet something so many couldn’t manage. Perhaps it’s the distance or maybe it’s his weak nature, but the longer he’s away from that life, the more he lifts her high. Once, he looked to Maker for guidance and Andraste for help. The Inquisitor was a better choice. For one, she actually answered his questions. And when choices were tough, she showed remorse, a flicker in her gaze, a hand on his shoulder. She  _ understood _ .

But now Cullen has neither religion nor Inquisition to pour his faith into.

Hawke trips into the room, his no doubt grand entrance ruined when his foot catches on his robes. Cullen barely has time to frown before Hawke sighs. “Spare me the speech. You think I’m a mage for the safety? No, it’s all about the aesthetic.”

“You could have style  _ and  _ protection. You’ll never manage grace, I’m afraid.”

Hawke gasps dramatically and clutches his chest. “I  _ enjoy  _ being an apostate, you know.”

Cullen lifts his eyebrows as if to say  _ everyone knows _ .

But Hawke doesn’t grin. He looks surprisingly serious as he sits down next to Cullen. “I was an apostate refugee when I came here. We were fleeing the blight. I lost my sister on the way, you know. Killed by darkspawn. Aveline lost her husband. He was a templar and almost took on the darkspawn by himself rather than accept help from me. He was an idiot. He didn’t deserve to die, but he was more afraid of me than undead rotting filth. It’s not good for the ego, you know?”

Hawke taps his fingers on the table, a restless beat. “They weren’t going to let us in. Too many refugees, not enough room. I joined up with a mercenary band to come up with enough money for a bribe. You see, they’d accept newcomers as long as they were useful. So I made myself useful.” Hawke’s easygoing demeanor hardens into something harsh. “I have the city guard requesting my help.  _ Templars  _ come to me when they need something handled. Did you know I can waltz into the Viscount’s manor whenever I want? I wear mage robes and carry my staff in the open and none of them will touch me because they need me. It’s a powerful feeling.”

Cullen can see it, the wide set of his shoulders, the look in his eye, it’s the moment when Hawke stops messing around and becomes  _ a mage _ . It’s the same transformation Isabela undergoes when she switches from flirtatious airhead to ruthless thief. When Varric switches from amused listener to willing killer. Cullen has switches of his own. He can be unassuming when he needs to be. He can duck his head, blush like a good chantry boy. And he can command armies against the greatest threat Thedas has ever faced.

“There isn’t much hope in this city for regular folk. Even less for elves and barely any for mages. I wear my robes proudly so they see there’s hope. Fenris doesn’t wear a helmet so everyone can see his ears. This whole thing started out selfish. I wanted into the city, I wanted a comfortable life. But things have changed. I want more. And I want it for people other than myself.”

Cullen barely holds back his smile or his tremor of excitement. Garrett Hawke isn’t the Inquisitor, but he’s still someone worth following. “First, the Qunari.” His voice is remarkably stable.

Hawke blows out a breath. He seems smaller after, as if he’s tucked away all his grand dreams. “Is it just me or has Isabela seemed cagey?”

“The tome is her chance to erase the price on her head. I can’t imagine it’s been easy for her to help you find it knowing you intend to hand it over to the Qunari.”

“We should track down this Castillon. I can give her his head as a thank you for being helpful.”

“And they say you don’t know how to give a good gift.”


	7. Chapter 7

The whole group goes to Lowtown, but they split into smaller parties. Cullen and Fenris are together with Varric, because Cullen and Fenris work well as a team, and Varric is a good distance fighter. Merrill and Anders are paired with Isabela. They’re the flash, Isabela’s the distraction. It leaves Hawke, Sebastian, and Aveline in a group.

Cullen doesn’t like Hawke separated from him even if he understands why the split makes sense. Besides, he grew used to this in the Inquisition. He would be stuck at Haven or Skyhold while the Inquisitor went off on whatever adventure struck her fancy. He had to trust her protection to others, but he  _ did  _ trust them. Sebastian and Aveline...they’re good people, but they aren’t Dorian or Iron Bull.

Hawke tries so hard to put them on equal footing, would anyone here sacrifice themselves for him? Cullen shoves his thoughts away as his party approaches the foundry from the front. It’s direct, but he has the best armor of the group, and Fenris is quick enough to dodge the bulk of the attacks.

They reach the foundry, intending to see Wall-Eyed Sam and the rest of their parties. Wall-Eyed Sam is there, but so is a cluster of Tevinter mages.

“Help!” Sam squeaks, spotting them. “They’re trying to rob me!”

“Theft is a crime, you know,” Varric says, drawing Bianca.

The mages turn, magic in their palms. Fenris vibrates next to Cullen, brimming with power, ready to charge. Cullen does what he does best. He casts a blanket over the room. The light in the mages’ hands dims, and they protest, startled, and Fenris charges. Varric fires off crossbow bolts. Once the scene is in motion, Cullen stops suppressing. It takes too much energy for him to hold long, but it was enough to give them the upper hand.

He raises his shield in time to turn a fireball’s path to the floor rather than his face. He charges, shield on one arm, sword in hand. He cuts through one mage and slams his shield into the face of another. Flames singe his arm. He spins, turning away the worst of the spell. Ice grips his feet, holds him in place. He curses and slams his shield into the ice until it breaks and he’s freed.

A staff catches him across the face, it’ll bruise, but he doesn’t bleed. He thrusts his sword forward, hears the groan which means he hit something. Battles like these are a blur, and when they’re done, they’re standing amongst the bodies of the Tevinter mages. Cullen sweeps the room but doesn’t see Wall-Eyed Sam.

“He give you the slip too?” Hawke leans against the open doorway, blood streaked across his face. Exhaustion sits in dark rings below his eyes. “We found some Qunari who demanded we return their tome when we didn’t even have possession yet. They’re handled, but it delayed us.”

Merrill and Anders skid into the room from the otherside. “We fought a mercenary force, but we won. Isabela, she--” Merrill looks to Anders as if hoping he’ll pick up the rest of the story.

“She’s gone,” Anders says.

Cullen sits down on an iron trunk. Betrayal? He’d forgotten to keep his guard up for it. Stupid.

“Shame.” Hawke’s voice is too light as if he’s hiding his true feelings. “I think she’d really like these Lambswool Insoles.”

“Bring them along,” Varric says.

Varric’s always had a strange optimism. It was one of the things Cullen first noticed when Cassandra brought him into the Inquisition. He knew of Varric from Kirkwall, of course, but their paths didn’t cross often. But Varric made it through Kirkwall with a sense of humor, he and Cassandra both emerged alive and unscarred from her interrogation, and he even stuck around to help the Inquisitor out. He never had the faith Cassandra or Cullen did, but he did believe.

They trudge back to Hawke’s manor, exhausted and a bit discouraged. Cullen rotates his shoulder and winces at the pain.

“I can help you,” Anders offers.

“No, thank you.” Cullen will heal the slow way if it means Anders doesn’t touch him.

“You really hate mages that much?” Anders asks, his helpful healer voice replaced with something darker.

“I don’t hate mages.”

Anders scoffs. “You’re a templar.”

“Former. I hate  _ some  _ mages. Not all.”

“He loves me,” Hawke says brightly as if hoping to break the tension. “I think it’s because of my sparkling personability.”

“Definitely your fashion sense,” Cullen says.

Hawke laughs. “See, Anders? Less feathers and Cullen would like you more.”

Varric leads the way into the mansion. They follow him and pause when they see Isabela waiting for them. Her hair is mussed from fighting, there are a few spots of blood on her tunic, but she’s there and holding the tome. Her tight smile suggests some of them look surprised. “He was getting away.”

“Thank you for chasing him,” Hawke says. “I think it’s healing potions all around. And some food. Then we’ll be in perfect shape for getting drunk. Who’s with me?”

#

Cullen, as has become his habit, tucks Fenris into bed first, then Hawke into bed beside him. He drapes the blanket over the both of them, but he doesn’t drape Hawke’s arm over Fenris’s waist or force Fenris to tuck his face against Hawke’s neck. They do that part on their own. He smiles as he takes a step back, surveying the scene.

He’s startled as Hawke’s free hand clasps his. Apparently they’re aren’t as soundly asleep as he believed. At least, not Hawke, who blinks at him, his lids heavy, a moment or two from giving into a hard day’s work and an abundance of alcohol. Hawke’s grip isn’t strong, but the simple touch is enough to hold Cullen in his place.

“You never stay.” Hawke’s words are slurred, a spill of sounds. “There’s space.”

Cullen looks at the bed, barely enough for two, let alone three, and reclaims his hand. “I don’t believe there is.” He tucks Hawke’s arm under the blanket where it will stay warm. “But I appreciate the thought. Sleep well, Hawke.”

Hawke breathes out and shuffles closer to Fenris, curling toward the elf. Cullen gently closes the door on his way out.

#

He has to pass through the dining room, or, rather, the room they eat in, in order to leave. The table is a mess of empty plates and goblets for someone else to pick up in the morning. Everyone has left, everyone but Varric, sitting as if he’s a father waiting for an errant child to return home.

Cullen’s too old to feel caught out, especially given how he’s done nothing wrong. “Are you looking for an escort back to The Hanged Man?”

“Hardly. I’m staying here tonight along with everyone else. Hawke has plenty of rooms. Are you getting a final drink before you sleep?”

“I’m returning to my quarters.”

“I suppose you’re always going to be a soldier. It doesn’t mean you have to be dense. They’d like it if you stayed.”

It’s pointless to play stupid with Varric so he doesn’t bother. He sticks with the truth. “I don’t belong here.”

“But you are here.” As always, Varric doesn’t let him slip into his melancholy. “Might as well take advantage.”

#

In the morning, they eat breakfast together before they split up, all of them to show up at the Qunari Compound but not together. Anders does his best to keep his distance from them, for their protection as well as his. Merrill does the same. Cullen still doesn’t completely understand Sebastian’s motivations, he’s a young man torn between two worlds and thinks indecision is the better option.

Aveline arrives with a small band of the city guard, and Hawke nods at her in greeting but doesn’t bound over to say hi. He, Varric, and Isabela approach the Arishok while Fenris and Cullen hang back, hoping to go unnoticed until they’re needed.

_ If  _ they’re needed.

The Arishok is a large Qunari with large shoulder pauldrons and a criss-crossed harness, but the rest of his chest is bare. It shows off his  _ vitaar _ . Cullen knows from reading and speaking with Iron Bull how effective, and dangerous, the  _ vitaar  _ is. He’s mildly jealous, a poisonous armor which isn’t as bulky as the armor he wears?

“You have requested an audience with the Arishok. You have it. What is your purpose here?” The Arishok remains seated, like a king on a throne.

Hawke doesn’t approach with any kind of humility or deference. “I come here with a proposal. You and your people have been here, kept in Kirkwall, until you have the Tome of Koslun. I, after learning, quite recently might I add, what you were searching for, found it for you.” Hawke even pulls the book out of his satchel as a demonstration.

The Arishok leans forward as if he’s finally interested. His gaze strays to Isabela, and his expression darkens. “Give me my people’s sacred word and the one who stole it, and I will consider leaving before my work is finished.”

Hawke shakes his head. “I don’t like how any of that sounded. I mean, the first part was pretty good, I’ve offered to give you the tome, and it’s not as though I have any use for Qunari religious musings. But give you Isabela? Not happening. And you didn’t commit enough to the leaving part for me. It’s okay. Not everyone gets their lines right on the first try. Let’s take it again from the top. So, I say--”

The Arishok raises his hand and every Qunari in the compound raises their weapon. Cullen knows their small party packs a punch, but even they can’t take on the entire compound. Still, his hand drifts toward his sword, ready to give every ounce of life he has to Hawke.

“She took what did not belong to her,” The Arishok says. His gaze doesn’t leave Isabela. “She will pay for her crimes.”

Hawke steps in front of Isabela, forcing the Arishok to look at him instead. “You will not harm her.”

“Or what?” The Arishok looks down on them and smiles, a man who knows he holds all the power. He acts as if he’s humored Hawke by letting him come here. Cullen’s fingers curl around the hilt of his blade. “I will take what is mine, and before we leave this city, we will cleanse it.”

“We can handle our own problems,” Hawke says.

“Do you know how long we’ve watched your problems grow? Your kind think selfishness is normal.” He jabs a finger at Hawke himself. “You would sacrifice this whole city for a single woman? Your society is a disease, and it is my duty to keep it from spreading.”

Cullen steps out from the sidelines. He doesn’t paint an impressive picture, he’s small compared to the Qunari and his hair is short and blonde, no intimidating horns atop his head. Still, he tilts his chin up, a challenge. “Your words, if turned into action, would be an act of war.”

“A war you would lose. But unlike you, I will show compassion. Anyone who converts to the Qun will be spared. Those who insist on keeping the rot Kirkwall inside them will be put to the sword.” He stands and holds his hand out for his weapon. “I will heal this city.”

Hawke glances around at the Qunari who line the walls, and Cullen sees the moment he realizes they’re outnumbered. But he’s too far away to stop Hawke from striding up to the stairs with a grin on his face. “How about this? A nice, friendly, duel to the death. You win, you get your way. I win, I get my way.”

The Arishok considers it. “Our champion against your champion?”

“We can do it right now unless you have a full schedule.”

“We do it at the Viscount’s Keep. Let everyone come and witness the fate of this city.”

#

“This is a terrible idea,” Varric says as they follow Hawke to the Keep.

“Cullen says I win this fight. I don’t see how it could go wrong.”

“Circumstances were  _ very  _ different last time,” Cullen says.

“Well, I wasn’t going to let him kidnap Isabela, and I wasn’t going to let him convert or kill the entire city. Are you all saying you doubt me?”

“You heard doubt in my voice?” Varric scoffs. “Hawke,  _ all  _ your ideas are terrible and yet they always work out. Still, I’m a good friend.” He hands over a grenade belt with six nasty concoctions dangling from it. “This should help even the odds.”

Merrill hovers over Hawke’s shoulder. “I know you don’t like blood magic but...as a last resort? If you’re dying, you’ll probably be bleeding a lot.”

Varric sighs and ushers Merrill away, leaving Cullen and Fenris with Hawke. Hawke glances between them and laughs a little. “This is probably your worst nightmare, an unpredictable mage in a fight for his life against a formidable opponent.”

“I’m not worried,” Cullen says.

“Because you’ve seen the future?”

“Because I’ve seen  _ you _ .” Cullen’s answer knocks the smile right off Hawke’s face, leaving behind something too honest and too open to deal with now. Cullen squeezes his shoulder, a gentle touch, and then leaves Fenris and Hawke to have a moment alone.

“You keep walking away from them,” Varric says. Cullen isn’t in the mood to listen to this anymore than last night or the other times Varric has tried. Varris isn’t dissuaded by Cullen’s scowl. “I mean, I’m sure they don’t mind the view, but they’d rather you stay.”

“View?” Merrill cranes her head. “Oh! Is it because they like staring at his backside? Isabela does too. Is it a very nice one, then? Humans have fuller ones than elves, I think. I don’t have much to compare it to.”

“Please stop talking,” Cullen says. He thought prolonged exposure to Isabela destroyed his ability to blush, but Merrill has, unfortunately, proved him wrong.

“No, keep going,” Varric encourages. “I need some new lines for my book.”

Varric’s smile doesn’t last long. Fenris stalks over to join them and then Hawke steps out to meet the Arishok. Next to Fenris, Hawke seemed large, broad shoulders, solid torso, biceps which are hidden by his new robes. But he’s small in comparison to the Arishok. Cullen knows better than to judge on size, but he also knows what the odds are in one-on-one combat.

_ Andraste, if you’re listening, please lend Hawke your strength _ .

The arena is the Main Hall, with the spectators, including the Viscount himself, up on the dais to watch. Cullen cannot pace, there is not enough room. He stands at the railing, with Fenris on one side and Varric on the other.

He  _ watches _ .

Hawke in his mage robes, with his staff in hand, magic crackling in the room. The Arishok with a sword in one hand and an axe in the other. In the hands of a human, the weapons would be large. The Arishok looks as though he could fight without tiring for days.

Cullen taps his fingers on the railing. If this were a chess match--but it isn’t. This is real life. One wrong move and--a warm hand covers his own, stilling his movements. He looks down, surprised to see Fenris has removed one of his gauntlets. He’s not sure why he’s surprised. They can wear all the armor they want. It won’t protect Hawke.

“You saw this last time?” Fenris asks.

Cullen shakes his head. “I was with the mages. It didn’t go quite the same way. The Qunari openly attacked the city. They rounded up the nobility in the Keep. They killed the Viscount and threatened to kill anyone else who didn’t convert. But I heard all that after. All I knew was there was trouble and someone had to keep the mages calm.”

“And that was you?”

“Knight-Commander Meredith felt I would be...particularly motivated to see it done.”

“Ah.”

Cullen pushes unpleasant memories aside as the battle begins in earnest. The Arishok swings his sword and, as Hawke ducks, brings his axe down. Hawke twists and manages to avoid both weapons. It’s close and he has to drop and roll out of the way. It isn’t dignified but it is, at least, effective.

Hawke throws a fireball, and it gives him the time to scramble to his feet and put some distance between himself and the Arishok. Two quick fireballs, a blast of ice, before the Arishok breaks through and Hawke has to run again.

It’s a chase, Hawke freezing the Arishok’s feet long enough to hold him in place, shoot off a few spells, and then he runs again once the Arishok can move. The Arishok doesn’t seem to tire, but Hawke does. Cullen can see it in the sweep of his staff, slower than it was at the start of the fight.

“Grenade!” Varric calls out, reminder.

Hawke throws one of the spheres at the ground and backflips out of the way. The grenade smokes, and the Arishok waves a giant hand to clear it and then it  _ explodes _ . The Arishok is flung backward and something with enough kick to move him also flings Hawke in the opposite direction.

“I probably should’ve told him what those do,” Varric says to himself.

Hawke plants his staff on the ground and uses it to help himself to his feet. His robes are torn at the knees and singed at the shoulders. There’s blood and soot streaked across his face. He spots the Arishok’s sword, abandoned on the ground, at the same time the Arishok notices. The Qunari is worse for the wear, shrapnel embedded into his chest, blood mixing with his  _ vitaar _ .

They race for the weapon. The Qunari is larger, stronger on his push off, but Hawke is quicker. He grabs the sword and dives, sliding between the Arishok’s legs, coasting along a strip of ice.  _ He always does things in style _ .

Hawke tosses the Arishok’s sword up and out of the arena. It clatters at the feet of Knight-Commander Merdith. He spins back to the Arishok with a grin. “Do you yield?”

The Arishok bellows and charges. Cullen doesn’t doubt he’s as dangerous wielding one weapon as he was with two. He hefts his axe in both hands and swings, forcing Hawke to jump backwards. Hawke fires off a few spells before he has to dive out of the way.

The next time he dodges, the Arishok predicts it. The blade of his axe catches just enough of Hawke to slice the belt from his waist. His potions roll in one direction. His grenades roll in the other. He scrambles after the potions even as he throws a hand out, raising the grenades in the air.

“This oughta be interesting,” Varric says.

Hawke straps his staff to his back and runs, chugging a potion while his free hand holds the grenades in the air. He tosses the bottle aside and grabs his staff again. With a wave of his hand, the first grenade plummets. The Arishok knocks it aside with his axe, and Hawke slams a firebolt into his side.

He shouts and spins before he runs at Hawke. A grenade smashes into his back and liquid fire burns over the Arishok’s skin. He howls but drops and rolls to put the fire out. Hawke throws another spell, drops another grenade. It’s a relentless assault, and through it all, the Arishok continues to advance.

“Maker’s breath,” Sebastian breathes.

“No need to start last rites,” Varric says sharply.

“Have faith,” Cullen says. He keeps his eyes trained on the battle.

“He could end it if he used earth magic.” Fenris’s assessing gaze sees as much as Cullen’s.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to bring us all down with him,” Varric says.

“Or ruin the Viscount’s home.” Cullen shakes his head. Of all the times Hawke decides to put other people first it’s  _ this  _ one? And no, that’s too harsh a judgement. He spared Isabela when she deserved harsher treatment for keeping the Tome of Koslun a secret. He welcomed Fenris into his party when it was safer to cut him loose. He showed mercy to  _ Cullen _ . Still, Cullen wraps his fingers around the railing and wishes for Hawke to end the fight, regardless of the collateral damage.

The Arishok catches Hawke with his axe and Hawke grunts as he flies through the air. He lands with a thump on the ground. The audience gasps. A few nobles wail as if they believe their fates sealed. Hawke throws his right hand out, a stream of water which slams into the Arishok. Hawke’s second spell follows quickly on the heels of the first. Coldness, freezing the water, and the Arishok roars as the water which wormed its way into his wounds freezes and expands, tearing him apart from the inside out.

Fire to melt the ice, water, ice, repeat, with the Arishok’s cries to fill the Viscount’s Keep until the Arishok falls to his knees, falls to his face, and the Keep is silent.

One of the Arishok’s men steps forward. “You have fought valiantly and won. We will honor the agreement and depart.”

Hawke gestures, and Isabela takes the tome from her bag. Cullen eases it from her grip and offers her a smile. “In case they don’t want to leave with only one prize.” He brings the book forward and holds it out. “Take your sacred text and leave Kirkwall.”

The Qunari slip from the Keep. The Viscount waves his hand and Knight-Commander Meredith as well as Aveline gather their respective troops to ensure the evacuation doesn’t have any detours.

Cullen stays where he is, his hand on the hilt of his sword as the Qunari retreat from the room. He doesn’t dare turn his back on the threat until he’s sure it’s gone. Even then, he backs up, his gaze on the room as his feet bring him to Hawke.

“You’re here,” Varric says softly.

Cullen chances a look down. Fenris is braced over Hawke’s body, pain written into his face as if he’s the one bleeding profusely. Hawke, of course, smiles but it’s one Cullen recognizes too well; eyes glazed, muscles loose, the look of a man far gone.

Anders rushes over, knocking people out of the way. He kneels at Hawke’s side, Merrill a step behind him. Merrill opens his healer’s kit as Anders tears open Hawke’s robes to see the worst of the injury. Cullen, knowing he can’t do any good here, steps forward to intercept the Viscount.

“Will he--” the elderly man cuts himself off as if he’s afraid of the answer.

“Time will tell,” Cullen says. He puts his hand on the Viscount’s arm and leads him away from where Anders is a breath away from casting some powerful magic. “I would ask for any space you can give them.”

“Of course. Hawke has done us a great service. He will be honored accordingly. I will clear the room. Thank you…”

“A friend of Hawke’s.” Cullen gives the man an unassuming smile and gently guides him to the waiting Grand Cleric Elthina. He steps back before the Viscount can look for more answers.

“We will pray for Serah Hawke,” Ethina says. “If the Maker wills it, he will heal.”

_ Even if the Maker doesn’t will it _ , Cullen thinks. He offers a polite smile and strides back to the party. Sebastian, unsurprisingly, kneels near them but out of the way. He murmurs prayers, not last rites, if it was anything close to it, Cullen would cuff him. Instead, he prays while Merrill acts as a healer’s assistant to Anders. Fenris clutches Hawke’s hand between two of his, remaining close despite the magic happening so near him.

“I should have,” Isabela begins but she doesn’t finish as if she realizes guilt and wishful thinking won’t help the situation. She wrings her hands and looks to Varric but the dwarf watches with his lips pressed into a thin, grim line.

“It would be a bad ending if the hero died here,” Cullen says, aiming for levity.

“We have books because life disappoints us.” Varric tears his gaze away from Anders’s work. “But you’re right. This would be a terrible ending. There’s still a lot for the hero to do. Though, if this was one of my stories, the hero’s lovers would be confessing their feelings.”

Cullen nods to the scene before them. “You can’t hear them? Everyone here cares for him, and they express it in their own ways.” Sebastian, appealing to higher powers for help, Merrill offering her assistance to someone who can actually help. Fenris, his low voice anchoring Hawke here, urging him to cling to consciousness and life. Isabela, her feet rooted to the ground when every instinct tells her to run. Varric, stalwart, at Hawke’s side even though he claims he doesn’t have friends, only hirelings. Even Aveline who isn’t here, she’s showing her love, protecting the city until Hawke’s well enough to do it again.

And then there’s Cullen.

What is his confession?

That he’s here. He isn’t jumping into the city guard, he isn’t bringing order to the streets. He isn’t giving the Viscount a detailed plan of how to react. He takes a step forward and once he takes the first, the second is easier. Then the third. He kneels by Hawke’s head, just in time as the man begins to convulse.

“Abomination,” Fenris growls, threat and warning heavy in his voice.

“He needs a lot of magic,” Anders says. He grits his teeth as sweat beads his forehead, betraying his effort. “It’s too much for his body, but he needs more.”

Cullen lays his hands on either side of Hawke’s head. Here, at least, he can help. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He isn’t a mage, he can’t wield magic, but he can hold it, dilute it, suppress it. He takes another deep breath and searches for the magic in the air. It’s chaos, a cloud hovering above Hawke. Anders is skilled, but he’s right, this wound is deep.  _ Fatal _ . No, not if they can help it.

The magic sinks deep, healing what it can reach, but it fills the spaces in Hawke’s body even after its use has been sapped. Hawke needs more magic, but he’s too full to take it. And so Cullen draws another breath. With it, he draws the dead magic into himself. It burns, like alcohol or the beginnings of a fever. A tickle in his throat, an ache, building and building until each swallow feels as though he’s swallowing knives.

His fingers tremble, threatening his connection, but he presses tighter. His body may be frail, but he will not allow it to fail him now. He has a reason, a  _ purpose _ , and he will not falter.

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.” Cullen’s voice is a rasping, barely there thing, but he forces the words out. “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written.”

“Hear now, my benediction,” Sebastian murmurs.

“What’s happening?” Merrill whispers but her voice is too loud, it scrapes against Cullen’s head, behind his eyes, cutting at his most vulnerable places.

“I have faced armies with you as my shield.” Each word is a struggle, torn out of him, but still they rise, unbidden as if the magic within him forces them out. “And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence.”  _ Maker, where are you? Andraste, do you abandon your children when they need you most? _

_ When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me _

_ And the taste of blood fills my mouth, then _

_ In the pounding of my heart _

_ I hear the glory of creation _ .

Cullen’s vision grays out as the pain overtakes him. There’s a sick, copper tang in his mouth, he tilts his head toward the sky and begs for release. His fingers shake, but he holds them where they are. It would be easy to let go, easy to force this burden on someone else. Let someone else be strong.

A hand curls over his shoulder, grounding him to this world. “Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light.”

Cullen doesn’t recognize the voice, it isn’t his own, he can’t bring his to join it. Instead, he hears himself in his head, chanting along with this vision.

_ I shall weather the storm. _

_ I shall endure. _

_ What you have created, no one can tear asunder. _

All good templars memorized the trials. They read and learned of those who suffered before them. It gave them ideals to aspire to. It gave them faith that no matter their own trials, others had been through worse and prevailed. Now, it gives him hope, it gives him strength, and Cullen holds on even though he doesn’t remember why.


	8. Chapter 8

Cullen wakes without a gag in his mouth, but his mouth is dry and tastes foul as if he had. He rolls onto his side, sloth cannot be allowed to fester and grow. His feet touch the floor and immediately, someone rushes over.

“Bull-headed templar!” Isabela shoves him back onto the bed. “I’ll pin you here myself if I have to.”

“ _ Former  _ templar. And you say it as if it’s a trial. You  _ want  _ to pin me in bed.” Cullen grins up at her, loopy, as if his mind and his body aren’t quite connected.

“I want to knock you silly is what I want to do.”

Worry haunts her face, hidden in the shadows beneath her eyes and the wrinkles as she frowns. Cullen lifts a hand to brush the worry away, but he only makes it a few inches before he drops his hand back to his bed. “Is my armor on?” He feels too heavy.

“You saved Hawke’s life.” She brushes his hair from his forehead. It’s stiff with dried sweat. “You and Anders both. I never thought I’d see you work together.”

“A miracle from the Maker.”

“Yeah, whatever nonsense you mumbled, Sebastian thinks you hung the stars. You scared us.”

“Hawke is okay?”

“Resting. Grumbling about it. I should help you to his room. He isn’t fit to be moving yet, but he’ll try and reopen his wound if it means getting to you. Poor Fenris didn’t know what to do with both of you in different rooms. I wanted to put you on the floor, but Merrill said no.”

“Why would you listen to Merrill?” He would’ve gladly slept on the floor if it meant he could see Hawke the moment his opened his eyes.

Isabela laughs but it’s a weak, watery sound. “I suppose you’re already feeling better. Come on, ex-templar. Let’s get you to Hawke and Fenris.”

“What happened to Pretty Boy?” He doesn’t aid much in the effort to get him standing, and Isabela grunts as he drops his weight on her. His legs don’t seem to respond to his commands. Not much of a commander anymore. He laughs a little and sways as Isabela steadies them.

“If we walk by a mirror, you’ll understand.”

It’s slow progress, but they make it across the hall. Fenris jerks his head up in time to catch Cullen as he tips forward, out of Isabela’s hold. Cullen grunts at the sudden movement, but Fenris lowers him carefully to the ground.

“Good thing you didn’t panic. You might’ve put your hand through me.” Cullen looks up at Fenris, the pointed tips of his ears, the white hair, the lyrium markings which dig into his skin, and smiles. “I forgot to ask. What did it feel like? Holding my heart in your hand?”

Fenris brushes his knuckles against Cullen’s cheek, a whisper of a touch. “Ask me again when you have a chance at remembering.” He turns, away from Cullen and it’s wrong, wrong,  _ wrong _ , but before Cullen can voice this, Fenris is talking. “He should be in bed, Isabela.”

“So put him in bed.” She sounds unimpressed. “I’m going to see if I can scrounge up some broth.”

Fenris, deceptively strong, lifts Cullen and sets him into bed. Cullen tries to move over so there’s room for both of them and finds he’s already sharing. Hawke is asleep, his bare chest rising and falling with steady breaths. There’s a white bandage against his tanned skin. No blood seeps through, a good sign.

“Sleep,” Fenris says. “We’ll be here when you wake.”

#

He wakes to Fenris’s voice, a quiet swell of syllables. It’s almost enough to rock him back to sleep except he doesn’t want to miss anything. It takes him several minutes to realize Fenris is speaking. It isn’t until he opens his eyes he realizes Fenris is  _ reading _ . Fernis notices his wakefulness, of course he does, and pauses.

“What’re you? Oh.” Hawke brushes his fingers over Cullen’s arm. “Good, you’re awake. Bedrest is pretty boring. Now, I have a friend.”

Fenris slides a piece of paper into his book and closes it. He slips the book under his chair, facedown, but not before Cullen catches the title. “ _ The Book of Shartan _ ? That’s--it’s--I’m intruding.” He’s heard enough conversations to know it’s special. A gift from Hawke to Fenris, well-meaning because it’s about the elven slave rebellion, but awkward because Fenris can’t read. A gift even sweeter once Hawke offered to teach him how. Cullen doesn’t belong here.

He ignores Fenris’s growl, a warning not to move, but he holds perfectly still once Hawke drapes an arm over his chest. “There you go,” Hawke says as if he’s soothing a wild animal. “No sudden movements or you might pull my stitches. That would be...bad.”

“You don’t play fair,” Cullen says. Hiding chess pieces up his sleeves and trading cards under the table, a conspiracy to make him lose.

“ _ I  _ don’t play fair?” Hawke laughs but there’s something shaky beneath it, the ground Cullen treads isn’t as stable as he believed. “You’re the one who cheated the Maker and the great plan Sebastian keeps prattling on about. What did you  _ do _ ?”

“When magic is used to heal you, the magic seeps into your body. It takes hours to days for it to dissipate. It’s why you’re sometimes sore or tired after a healing. You needed more healing magic than your body could store. The castoff needed somewhere to go.”

“So you volunteered yourself,” Fenris says, smooth but clipped as if anger lurks beneath his words.

Cullen deliberates for a moment. There are secrets he keeps, ones he vowed to keep amongst those who could understand. But the Templar Order has betrayed him. Why not betray them back? “As a templar, I’ve learned to suppress magic.” He feels Hawke tense behind him then move closer as if to make up for it. Cullen wishes he had the strength to put some distance between them. “I can also absorb it. I’m sure you know templars have a resistance to magic. We distribute it through our body, accept what we can. The rest hits as us a spell normally would. I figured the mechanics would be similar.”

“You figured--” Hawke growls. “You didn’t know? It was an  _ experiment _ ?”

Cullen shrinks from the anger-- _ I am a disappointment again _ . “I apologize for being reckless with your life.”

“With  _ my  _ life?”

“Enough,” Fenris says, a smooth order which settles both men back into their places. “Neither of you can handle excitement at the moment.

Hawke slides his arm up until he can grip Cullen’s chin and turn his head, forcing their gazes to meet. “Sebastian says you were reciting the trials. The  _ Prayers for the Despairing _ . You--I--”

“I was worried for you,” Cullen says.

Hawke chokes out a tortured laugh. “Understatement. But okay. And thank you. I probably should have led with that. Anders says he wouldn’t have been able to heal me without your help. The Viscount said he was naming me the Champion of Kirkwall no matter what, but what’s the point of a fancy title if you can’t get all the perks from it?”

“You’ve discovered my secret.” Cullen gives into a temptation he’s felt the pull of since he first arrived, and traces the red mark across the bridge of Hawke’s nose. His eyes flutter but don’t close as if he doesn’t want to miss a moment. Cullen offers him a smile. “I wanted the Champion in my debt.”

“I am.” Hawke’s voice is quiet, serious. “Anything you want, name it and it’s yours.”

“You’ve already given me everything I need. To ask for more…” Cullen trails off. Exhaustion pulls at him again, heavy and demanding. His hand slips from Hawke’s skin. “Selfish.”

“I  _ want  _ you to be selfish.”

Cullen looks over at Fenris, who watches the two of them with an inscrutable expression. Selfish, indeed, touching Hawke as if he has a claim while his lover holds vigil. Cullen’s stomach roils. Another time, he would force his body into submission, but he’s too weak for it now. He retches and only manages to lean over the bed just in time. The bile burns the back of his throat and drips into the pot Fenris procures.

#

It’s dark when he jerks awake, cold sweat slicking his skin. Next to him, Hawke is sleeping deeply, which means Cullen was quiet or Hawke is a sound sleeper. Fenris rests on a pallet on the floor, looking small out of his armor, curled around empty space. It’s easy to see what’s missing. How many nights has Cullen tucked the two of them into bed? How many nights have they found each other without him? It’s easy to imagine Fenris curling up into Hawke. Or maybe it’s the other way, Hawke’s larger body bracketing Fenris, protecting him while they sleep?

It doesn’t matter how they sleep. Cullen doesn’t belong here. He staggers out of the room, glad when neither wakes but worried about what it means. What if someone attacked the mansion? Would they sleep through it? Maybe he should fashion himself a room near the front of the mansion so he can be the first line of defense.

He makes it to the entryway before he has to pause and catch his breath. He’s winded from a few steps, his legs shake with disuse and his vision swims as if even this is too much. Fortunately, he is familiar with the failings of the human body, his own in particular.

“Andraste’s knickers, what are you doing up and about?” Isabela plants her hands on her hips and scowls.

“You shouldn’t take Andraste’s name in vain,” Cullen says absently. He staggers to the table and decides this is as good a place as any to catch his breath.

“Oh no. One choir boy is enough for this little group. You’re an  _ ex _ -templar, remember?”

“Perhaps my faith has been revived. I prayed for Hawke’s deliverance.”

Isabela shakes her head. “ _ You  _ saved Hawke. You and Anders. Andraste had nothing to do with it. Ugh, it’s too late for theology. And I’m too sober. Varric, he’s all yours.”

“I don’t want to talk theology.” Despite Varric’s grumbling, he enters the room with a tray bearing a modest fare. He sets the tray in front of Cullen.

It’s standard sick food. A simple broth, plain bread, nothing to upset his stomach. His stomach growls, awakened at the sight, and Cullen forces himself to eat slowly. No matter how ravenous he might be, he’ll do himself no favors by cramming it all in.

“Before, you were pathetic. Now, you’re being stubborn.”

“I’m having a difficult time,” Cullen admits.

“Well, from what I understand of what happened, you sucked a poison into your body and it kicked your ass. I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong, you saved Hawke, but you played your cards. Self-sacrifice? That’s a classic love interest move. Trust me, I’m an author.”

Cullen sighs. He dips his bread in his broth to soften it. “He has everything he needs.”

“I know you grew up wanting to be a templar, and you probably still cling to those teachings, but it’s okay to want things.”

_ Selfish _ . Cullen tries to shake the word from his head.

“You think Hawke can’t love two people? I mean, I’ll spare your Chantry sensibilities from the stories I could tell from The Blooming Rose, but trust me, two people won’t tax his abilities.”

Cullen wrinkles his nose even though it makes Varric laugh at him and his ‘Chantry sensibilities’. “I don’t want a roll in the sheets.”

“Oh boy. I need a drink for this. You--” Varric jabs a finger at him, “Can’t have any, both because you’re recovering, and you don’t deserve it. Is this because of Bartrand? Why do I have to talk about  _ feelings _ ?”

“You don’t have to.” Cullen’s energized even by his partial meal. He can make it back to his room at Fenris’s. He doesn’t need to burden anyone. “I certainly didn’t ask you to pry.”

“Yeah, well, I’m good at sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.” Varric wanders into the other room and returns with an entire bottle. He laughs at Cullen’s expression. “I have a feeling there’s going to be a lot of feelings. Okay, Curly, hit me with it. What are you angsting about?”

“Angst?”

“Another good quality for characters. Fenris has the market cornered on brooding. So you angst. Hawke...flails. Can we skip the tragic misunderstanding and skip to the resolution? Hey, I’ll go for a walk if you want to go all-in on makeup sex. Though, I doubt you or Hawke are up for it. Heh, up for it.”

“Please shut up.”

Varric laughs and pops the bottle open. “You could talk.”

“When I was stationed at--”  _ Kinloch _ “--my first circle, I was given the honor of being the slayer. It was my responsibility to kill any mages who failed their Harrowing. Even beyond that, it is the duty of templars to put down errant mages. I--we weren’t encouraged to form attachments. You never knew who you might have to drive your blade through.”

“Well...that’s fucking depressing. I almost want to share my drink with you.”

Cullen drinks his broth. “I don’t fit here. There was a whole history without me.”

“And it sounds like we made a right mess of things. You’ve already done good by being here. Maybe there’s more good you can do.”

“Yes. We need to address the relationship between mages and templars before it’s too late.”

“I was thinking something smaller scale. More personal. You aren’t this dense. Stubborn, I’ll give you, but you aren’t stupid. Instead of running every time you’re spooked, stick around. Talk. See where it leads you.”

“Talk.” Cullen scoffs. “I am a man of action. I...I was the Commander of the Inquisition Army. I was one of the most powerful men in Thedas before I came here. Men and women looked up to me, they sought my direction. But it was a lie. I’m broken. I turned my back on the Order and I suffer every day for it. I--” Cullen holds his hands up so Varric can see the way they shake. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Maker, I need someone to tell me what to do.”

Varric’s gaze is full of pity as he sets his drink aside. “Hawke isn’t the second-coming of Andraste. He isn’t your Inquisitor. He doesn’t want followers. He wants equals. He wants  _ friends _ . I think you could be one of them.”

“I don’t know how.”

Varric reaches out to touch Cullen’s hand. He doesn’t react to how cold it is, more like a corpse than living flesh. “You’re doing better than you think. Just, don’t put him up on a pedestal. You know Hawke, terrible balance, he’s likely to fall off.”

“Then who do I believe in? Who do I look to for guidance?”

“Yourself.” Varric holds up a hand for patience as Cullen jerks back.

“But I make mistakes.”

“So you learn from them. You never made a mistake as the commander of an army?”

“Rarely.” He thinks back to Haven, how he allowed himself to grow complacent, to  _ celebrate _ and then they were ambushed and almost lost the Inquisitor. His quick thinking allowed for the evacuation but it required their most important piece to be sacrificed. Fortunately, she survived.

“You learn from your defeats as well as your victories. You think I haven’t screwed up? I trusted my brother and almost got the lot of us killed in the Deep Roads. Fenris, I understand he has a tough past, but he’s a kill first-think second kind of guy. Not always the best. And Hawke...I’m sure you can list five mistakes Hawke made in the past week. We all stumble. Sometimes, they’re big ones. It’s what makes us human or dwarf or elf, whatever we are.”

“When I make mistakes--” Kinloch, Kirkwall, he squeezes his eyes shut “--they’re catastrophic.”

“Well, we’re not going to let you run around unchecked. We’re your friends, remember? We have your back. You didn’t let Hawke go out in a blaze of stupidity against the Arishok. We won’t let you do whatever it is you’re afraid of doing.”

“I blindly followed Meredith’s descent into madness.” He speaks freely, as if he did partake in Varric’s drink. “After...well, after my first assignment, I came here. I was afraid of mages. I allowed my fear to harden into hate. The things I did...the things I allowed to happen...I’m ashamed of them.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you have to worry about a repeat. Hawke isn’t about to let you sign death warrants for all the mages in the city. And I don’t think you want to. Like I said, you learn from your mistakes.”

Cullen takes a deep breath. After he’s blown it out, he feels exhausted, as if all his strength was poured into a handful of words. “Thank you, Varric. You were a good friend before. I’m glad you can be again.”

“You know,” Varric leans forward before he shakes himself. “Better not to ask. Go back to bed. Let me drink in peace.”

Cullen staggers back to his temporary room. Fenris is awake, sitting against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. He looks up when Cullen enters and gives him a nod of acknowledgement.

“Ooh, I win the bet,” Hawke says. “I get to be in the middle. Come on, Cullen get back in bed. You too Fenris.”

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” Fenris explains.

Cullen pauses in the doorway, caught flatfooted. “I can leave.”

Fenris rolls his eyes. He stands and reaches his hand out. When Cullen clasps it, he tugs him into the room. “It’s time to sleep again.”

“There isn’t space for all three of us,” Cullen says, even as he allows Fenris to nudge him toward the bed.

“You’re right,” Hawke says and Cullen’s stomach sinks even as a part of him feels smugly satisfied at being right. And then Hawke gets out of bed and drags the mattress onto the floor. It’s the same height as the pallet and means there’s a bit more space. Hawke, slowly, lowers himself to the floor. He pats either side of him. “A bet’s a bet. Don’t be a sore loser, Fenris.”

“If you weren’t recovering from a life-threatening injury, I would elbow you.”

“Aw, you say the sweetest things.”

Cullen has no idea what kind of mess he’s landed himself in, but as he bunks down next to Hawke, he decides he doesn’t care. Either this will be a good thing, a small bit of happiness, for him to cling to. Or, it will be a mistake, and he’ll learn from it and move on. It’s...not as scary as he thought it would be.

He should buy Varric something nice as a thank you.


	9. Chapter 9

After the business with the Arishok, things calmed down; well, as much as things were ever calm in Kirkwall. Hawke, once healed, leads them on a search for Castillon. He presents his dead body to Isabela who asks for the corpse to take a place of honor in the entry hall of Fenris’s mansion. Fenris declines.

Anders expands his clinic, even taking Merrill on as an apprentice. Sebastian, too, joins the effort, even if he mostly prays and mixes the occasional poultice. They leave the walls of Kirkwall in search of herbs to keep Anders’s stocks full. Magic is all well and good, but it has its limits and its drawbacks.

“Remember, we’re looking for entire plants,” Hawke says as he kicks a stone up the path and chases it, like a game Cullen played as a kid, only they used a ball instead of a rock. “Merrill wants a garden.”

“It’s a good idea,” Varric says. “Which seems wrong to say. But I guess she’s due for a good idea. Hey, she hasn’t talked about her mirror in a while. Do you think Anders has managed to distract her?”

Maybe they can distract each other. Cullen’s kept a careful, distant, eye on the mage. He knows what Anders is capable of even though he at first believed the official report, that it was Hawke who blew up the Chantry. But it was Anders, tired of the tense stalemate between mages and templars, who tipped them over the edge. Cullen won’t allow the repeat. The best option, he knows, would be to drive his sword through the man and end it.

But Cullen isn’t a templar anymore. And even if he was, does Anders’s potential for destruction warrant his death? Fenris is a walking weapon and his fuse is shorter than Anders’s. Varric holds the potential to kill. So does Cullen. So why are mages the ones who are gutted at the first hint of violence?

Cullen’s musing on philosophy when a group of men pop out from behind the rocks in front of them, armed and dangerous. They don’t lunge right away, even as Hawke and his party drop into defensive formation.

“You there!” A voice calls from the ledge above them. Another party of men, smaller this time but in better armor. The power, not the muscle. “You are in possession of stolen property.”

Fenris growls, his marks lighting up, casting blue and white light on the rock formations around them. He trembles with the effort of holding back, but he doesn’t charge, not yet. He looks to Hawke for direction then, as if realizing what he’s done, leaps into action. He punches his fist through one attacker, and Cullen rushes in behind him, deflecting a sword meant for Fenris’s back.

“Don’t kill him!” the man on the ledge shouts.

Hawke whoops and twirls his staff, a gust of wind knocking the four men off their high ground. He and Varric attack them while Cullen and Fenris deal with the others. It’s a swirl of bloodshed, more slavers pouring out from hiding places, running up the road at the sounds of their friends’ distress.  _ Not very smart _ , Cullen thinks as he bashes his shield into the face of one.

When the battlefield quiets, except for low groans and quiet whimpers, Fenris stalks through the bodies, shoulders tight, his lip curled in distaste. Cullen shouldn’t find it attractive and yet, seeing so much power carefully controlled, knowing the expertise in Fenris’s body...He clears his throat, censuring himself, as Fenris finds the body he’s looking for.

He crouches over the man, grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head up. “Where is he?”

The man blubbers and Fenris twists the hair in his hold until the man cries for real. He begs for mercy, barters for information, as if he truly thinks he’ll make it out of this pass alive. He can’t give Fenris his former master, but he gives up the location of Hadriana, and Fenris takes the information he offers and snaps his neck.

When he stands, he doesn’t turn around for a long time. Even after a few minutes, hate still boils beneath his skin and fills his gaze. “If Hadriana is here, it is at Danarius’s bidding. And it means he grows desperate.” He nudges the bodies at his feet. “He’s thrown hunters and slavers at me. Even a few lower ranked magisters. But Hadriana? She is his favorite apprentice.”

“So we kill her,” Cullen says. “Use her demise to draw Danarius from the shadows.”

“She is a powerful blood mage.” Fenris’s gaze dips to Cullen’s torso. The neat rows of scars are hidden by clothing and armor, but Fenris knows they’re there.

“She won’t be the worst blood mage I’ve faced.” Cullen offers a brief, bitter smile. Maker willing, he’ll never go up against someone worse than Uldred.

“We should hurry.” Fenris starts down the path to the west as if Cullen’s agreement was the only one he was waiting for. As if he trusts Hawke to follow him wherever he goes. “I will not give her time to prepare.”

“Or run.” Hawke’s cheerful facade is just that, a facade. Beneath his smile is something darker, something which promises death to every slaver they meet on their way. “If I were her, I would run.”

“You never run,” Varric says, picking up the thread of banter as they move quickly through the winding paths on the coast.

“Which is why I’d have to be someone else in order to do it. Try and keep up, Varric.”

Fenris leads them to one of the many abandoned, or assumedly abandoned, caves outside of the city. It was once a holding for slaves as their transporters haggled over prices or protected their stock before a transaction. Cullen’s stomach twists at the thought of it. He can’t imagine what Fenris is feeling.

Fenris leads them into the cave, his focus narrow, set on Hadriana. Cullen forces himself to be alert, to expect what Fenris may not be prepared for. They pass by cages, empty now, but it’s all too easy to imagine what this place was like full.

They make it to a larger room, and there’s a body on top of a table. The sharp tang of blood permeates the room, not yet distilled with rot. A fresh body, then. Fenris walks over, does a quick study. “A sacrifice. They’re still here.”

“And preparing for us.” Hawke closes the man’s eyes in a sign of respect. “She will pay for this.”

“She will pay for all of it.”

Cullen lingers at the table for a moment. The man is cut once, a bloody gash across his neck. He bled, and died, quickly. It’s a small comfort, but Cullen’s glad he at least had that. It means this Hadriana isn’t as skilled a blood mage as she could be. If she drew out the process, bled him, healed him so she could bleed him again, she could suck more power out of him. Is she careless? Or does she have so many bodies it doesn’t matter if she wastes a little here and there?

Fenris leads them forward again, and Cullen falls into line. He hopes they’ll be able to save at least a few of Hadriana’s captives. They pass through two doors and a band of slavers charge them. There aren’t enough of them to counter Fenris’s cold fury or Hawke’s blazing vengeance. 

Cullen cuts down any who stray too near his blade, no mercy for these men.

Even Varric doesn’t call out as he fires his crossbow bolts. There’s no battlefield banter, no jesting about Bianca. They work their way down the hall until they reach an open room. More slavers. If they’re lucky, there won’t be another peddler in sentient flesh alive one they’re through with these caves.

Cullen stabs, sweeps, jabs, and brings his sword down in a wide arc. Bodies fall at his feet. He’s careful of them as he moves into his next pattern, fighting off two men at once. Magic glances off his shield, deflects into the floor where it sizzles. So far, no blood magic. How many cheap bodyguards until they find who they’re really here for?

Cullen drives his sword through a man, yanks it out and--pauses. In the corner huddles a young elven woman, her blonde hair bright, somehow untouched by the blood and grime of the caves. He looks around to make sure they’ve cleared the room of enemies before he approaches, his sword lowered, not a threat, but unsheathed in case he needs it.

“They’ve been killing everyone.” The girl looks around the room, her gaze falling on each of them in turn. Whether she realizes she can trust them or she’s given up all hope, she keeps talking. “I don’t understand. We did what we were told. But she said--she said someone was coming to kill her.” She studies them, as if she is finally beginning to understand. “She needed power. She killed Papa. You--you are the ones she’s afraid of.”

“I’m sorry for your father.” Hawke approaches, his hands outstretched. When she doesn’t back away, he clasps her hands in his. “And I’m sorry for the others. We’re here to stop her so she can’t hurt anyone the way she’s hurt you ever again.”

“But she’s my master. What will I do if you kill her?”

Fenris growls and, noticing the way the girl flinches, stalks to the far side of the room where he can fume in peace. Hawke turns the girl so she can’t see Fenris anymore.

“Oh.” Her face breaks into a soft smile. “If you kill my master, you become my master. I’ll serve you. Anything you need. I’m very good, I promise.”

Cullen’s stomach turns, but he doesn’t allow any of his revulsion to show on his face. She doesn’t know anything but slavery and even if it was demeaning work, even if it was difficult, even if they hurt her, at least it was a life she knew. To be cast out, adrift...he knows there are lives out there better than being a slave. There’s no reason for her to know it.

“I will not become your master,” Hawke says and his voice is even and steady. “But I would become your employer if you wish it. I will give you a place to live, food to eat, and a wage for the duties you perform. And if you ever wish to leave, I will give you fare for whatever passage you book.”

“Leave?” The girl is on the verge of tears.

“We’ve wasted enough time here,” Fenris snaps.

Hawke’s smile doesn’t falter though it does strain at the edges. “Varric, would you take the young woman back to Kirkwall? Bring her to my home. We’ll meet you there when we’re done.”

“Do you want me to wait by the cave mouth for any others?”

Cullen looks toward the door which will bring them deeper into this horror. He knows what Hawke will say even before he says, “I very much doubt we’ll find anyone else alive.”

“Ah. Yes.” Varric clears his throat. “Come along, dear. What’s your name?”

“Orana.”

“Orana? That’s a pretty name. I am Verric Tethras. I would tell you about Kirkwall, but I don’t want to scare you off. I’m an author, though. I can tell you all about made up lands.”

His voice grows distant as they head back the way they entered. Hawke and Cullen join Fenris who makes for the next door as soon as they start moving. They fight through another two rooms of slavers, and rather than growing tired, Fenris grows more agitated every time they fight and it isn’t Hadriana they face.

Hawke calls for a pause, potions all around to revive their strength. Cullen is especially glad for it as he feels a sickening tug, a hum in his blood he never wanted to hear again. He shudders and both his companions notice. “We’re closer. I can feel her casting.”

“A templar thing?” Hawke asks.

A Kinloch thing. There aren’t many survivors of blood magic, even if there were, Cullen has no interest in a support group or a being a research subject. His blood has been used in spells and now he can tell when blood magic is performed near him. It’s almost as if his body is alerting all blood mages in the area that he’s here, and he’s been used before.

He bites his lip, not hard enough to draw blood, he isn’t stupid, but enough for the pain to chase away his fears. “We’re almost there. We should move.”

“Cullen…” Hawke hesitates, but Fenris stalks forward and when Cullen follows, Hawke jogs to catch up.

They go down a set of stairs and then another, and Cullen can’t help but read into the descent. By the time they reach the door, Cullen knows with certainty what they’ll find on the other side.

“Hold their focus,” Hawke says. “I’ll do the rest.”

Fenris flings the door open, and Cullen and Fenris step through, a couple feet, enough for the slavers to charge them. Cullen fights, engages the enemy as Hawke throws spells over his shoulders. Fenris is the one who leaps forward, targeting the ranged fighters. Cullen falls back so he can protect Hawke’s position.

They clear the slavers and Fenris yells as he charges a woman in mage’s robes. Hadriana, Cullen’s mind fills in. The woman calls shades from the Fade, and they rise through the floor, no respect for the battlefield. Cullen shifts positions, clears a corner for Hawke to throw spells from. He swings his sword, not to kill this time, to fend off, distract as Hawke ends their existence. It’s familiar, being the first defense against the unholy, reminds him of his early templar days, the simple ones.

They dispatch the first wave of shades, but the ground is littered with the bodies of slavers, bodies full of blood. Hadriana creates an impenetrable shield around herself and raises her hands, and more shades heed her call.

“Great,” Hawke mutters. He doesn’t have the breath for anything long-winded or witty. They continue to fight in tandem, but Cullen keeps an eye out for Fenris. He tears about the room, cutting through shades, darting in at Hadriana and whacking ineffectually at her shield before he’s forced back by demons.

They defeat the second wave, a third. Cullen fights on his own for a few moments and figures Hawke is taking a potion. Hopes, at least, and that it isn’t a sign of something worse. He breathes a sigh of relief when a fireball careens over his shoulder. It blasts the shade into Hadriana. Her shield buckles but holds.

Still, Cullen can feel the blood which feeds it. The flow isn’t as strong.

“She’s running out of power,” Cullen says.

Hadriana’s gaze snaps to him. “I am not.”

With a bellow, Fenris cuts down the last of the shades. There’s a long, telling moment, as no news ones rise to take their place.

“She has enough for one or two last tricks.” Cullen keeps his sword and shield both raised, ready for an attack. “Or she can keep her shield up.”

Hadriana’s lip curls into an ugly sneer. “Ah, I can sense it now. You’ve been bled. Come here for more?”

She can’t scare him, not when he has Hawke and Fenris here at his side. “I can take down her shield,” he tells Fenris. He doesn’t take his gaze off the women. She’s weak but it doesn’t mean she’s beaten. Abomination? No, she won’t go that route. It’s the route for the desperate. She’s too proud to be desperate.

“Let her hold it,” Fenris says as he circles her prone form, a vulture waiting to feed on the dying. “We’ll watch the last of her hope drain away. How does it feel, Hadriana? Knowing you’ve been so thoroughly beaten?”

“I’ve never been beaten.” Even defeated, she clings to her haughty attitude. She smirks as she looks to Fenris as if she truly believes she’s his better. “That was always your job.”

Fenris kicks her, but his foot catches the barrier, and he grunts as she laughs.

“Cullen,” Hawke says, no doubt about to ask him to rip her shield away so they can end this.

Fenris holds his hand up for silence and Hawke doesn’t say anything else. He crouches next to Hadriana as her shield flickers. It holds, but the protection isn’t as thick. “What do you think will happen when your barrier fails? You know me, Hadriana, my past and purpose. You’ve seen me kill at Danarius’s command. Did you ever wonder what it felt like?”

“You don’t want me dead!”

Cullen isn’t the only one who laughs at her outburst. Fenris curls his hand over the barrier, not quite touching. “There is only one person whose death I want more, but Danarius isn’t here so I will settle for you. Maybe I’ll send your belt back to him so he doesn’t have to wonder what happened to you.”

“You have a sister. I’ll tell you where she is. I’ll help you find her.” The barrier flickers one last time before it vanishes. “You need me.”

Fenris punches his hand into her chest, his marks glowing as he holds her heart in his hand. “What is her name? And don’t try lying. I’ll feel it if you lie.”

“V-Varania. She’s a servant to Magister Ahriman.”

“Qarinus?”

“I can bring her to you. You can be reunited with your family.”

“I can find her myself.” Fenris yanks his hand back. He tosses Hadriana’s heart on the floor and wipes his bloody hand on her robes. He takes the belt from her robes and stands up. “Let’s depart.”

It’s a silent walk back through the cave, through the trail of destruction they’ve left in their wake. Cullen’s body is equal parts exhausted and keyed up from all the blood magic thrown around. Hawke leans on his staff as they go, clearly just as tired. Fenris shows no signs of fatigue as he prowls through the remains of Kirkwall’s bloody history.

They reach fresh air and sunlight. Fenris spins to them, picking up in the middle of a conversation they weren’t having. “It is clearly a trap. If Hadriana knows of my sister then so does Danarius. It would be foolish to follow this lead. I will not be persuaded otherwise.”

“It’s your choice,” Hawke promises.

“I need to be alone.”

Fenris takes the longer path back to the city. Cullen doesn’t even suggest they quietly follow behind him. Anyone who sees Fenris in this state and dares to attack him deserves whatever fate he delivers. It leaves Cullen and Hawke to make their way back to the city together.

“That was shitty,” Hawke says. They find the site of their first ambush. The bodies have already been picked clean. The first hint of a smile crosses Hawke’s face. “I want to drink until it dulls the edge of it.”

“You have a servant waiting for assignment back at your manor,” Cullen reminds him.

Hawke groans. “My mother would be proud of how my household is growing. But--did I make the right choice? Servitude is slavery with a bit of coin to soothe the conscience.”

“Treat her well. Pay her enough for her to have the ability to leave if she ever has the desire to. I’m not sure what else you can do.”

“What does you  _ Chant of Light _ have to say about all this?”

“We are all Andraste’s children. And we live to serve the Maker. What is pain or suffering in the face of acceptance of the divine?”

Hawke groans. “Wrong person to ask, okay. Let’s go see what mess I’ve landed myself in this time.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so I forgot I was posting this story. Apologies. And, to keep it from happening again, I'm posting the rest of it at once. So happy, reading? 
> 
> Tags have been updated.

With Fenris sulking and Hawke hovering, Cullen finds himself with some unexpected time on his hands. He ducks out of a hunting trip, leaves Sebastian and Isabela to needle each other with Varric playing babysitter and pops down to the alienage.

Merrill isn’t in her house, but he finds her the next place he checks, at Anders’s clinic.

“Your plants are doing well.” Cullen inspects along the window, the only place in the room with enough sun for herbs to grow.

“It’s not enough.” Merrill’s voice takes a melancholy twinge. “But there’s no space for more.”

“What about Hawke’s roof?” Cullen ignores the surprise on both mages’ faces. “Plenty of sunlight, plus, I don’t think it gets a lot of traffic. You can grow elfroot to your heart’s content.”

“That’s a good idea.” Merrill doesn’t have the social graces to keep the surprise out of her voice, but Cullen doesn’t mind.

“We can go buy the seeds, if you’d like. Or we can go on an adventure.”

“An adventure?” Merrill perks up like one of her plants. “I do enjoy leaving the city, but Fenris has been so grumpy, and it’s put even Hawke out of sorts. I asked to go with Varric today, but he said he already had his hands full.”

“Adventure it is, then,” Cullen says.

Anders narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t like it. “Merrill, if he tries to preach the evils of mages to you, hit him on the head with your staff.”

“Oh.” Merrill droops. “You’re going to give me lectures?”

“I was hoping to go for a walk and find some elfroot. No lectures.”

Anders snorts. “As if you could get off your templar high horse long enough for that.”

Cullen’s felt a prickle of irritation every time he’s spoken to Anders since coming back. Today, that irritation flares into something unavoidable. “For someone who preaches tolerance for mages, you don’t seem inclined to extend that tolerance to anyone else.” Cullen steps forward, presses the attack when he catches Anders off balance. “I have seen the worst of mages, but I have tried to put the bad memories behind me and greet each new mage I find without those biases. Where is your open-mindedness, Anders? Or is your holy crusade simply revenge wrapped in pretty ideals?”

“It’s  _ justice _ .”

Unease prickles down Cullen’s spine. “And how close is Justice to the surface?”

“Depends, if he’s close will you kill me like all those mages you killed when you were a templar?”

Cullen didn’t come here for a fight. “Peace requires peace from both sides. Meditate on that.” He turns to Merrill and extends his arm the way Josephine taught him before they attended the masquerade. “Are you accompanying me?”

Merrill giggles, sounding young as she skips over to loop her arm through his. “I feel very fancy. Have you ever been to a party?”

“More than I wished. I’m not as gifted a storyteller as Varric, but I can tell you about them if you’d like.”

“I would. Uh, please.”

“Very well. Orlais was on the brink of civil war. For some reason, the only way to intervene was to attend a masquerade ball at the Winter Palace...” He begins his story, interrupted every few words as Merrill begs to hear about clothes and decorations and food.

#

Cullen hammers the final nails into place to create the garden boxes. There are rows of them lining the roof of the mansion, waiting to be filled with soil and then seeds. Merrill hovers nearby, gasping and then covering her mouth with her fingers as if making noise will earn her a reprimand.

Cullen, glad for the sweat pooling at the small of his back and labor which isn’t bringing about death, stands, stretches, and grabs the first sack of soil. Isabela, when she caught wind of what they were doing, made herself scarce. Sebastian helped. Aveline even offered the assistance of the city guard in exchange for some of their harvest.

After watching Cullen pour soil into the first box, Merrill jumps in to help. She drags her sack of soil to an empty box and fills it up. One by one, they fill each box until they’re ready for planting. They have ten rows of boxes. The first five rows are planted with seeds, the next five rows with plants they dug up outside the city. If they take good care of their garden and don’t get into too much trouble, they should always have fresh elfroot and more growing.

When it’s finished, Cullen wipes his hand across his face. His back twinges and his arms ache, but he feels  _ good _ .

Merrill giggles and points to his face. “You look like Hawke.”

He touches the bridge of his nose and his fingers come away with dirt on them. “I suppose I do.” He sits down near one of the boxes. “You have to water them every day.”

“I know. I won’t let the plants die. Anders says we could do a lot of good if we had more potions and salves.” She glances away as if she isn’t sure she should bring up the other mage in front of him.

“You can talk about Anders.”

“You don’t get along.”

“We’ve both been harmed, him by templars, me by mages. It makes for rocky ground to begin a friendship.”

“I’m a mage.” She hovers near him, ready to flee as if somehow he’s forgotten.

“I know.” He pats the space next to him and she slowly takes a seat. “But Anders has a point. Magic to you is like a sword to me. It’s a weapon. And if you don’t know how to use it properly, you’re at risk of hurting someone with it.” He leans back on his elbows and tips his head up to the sun. “You use blood magic.”

“I, er, we don’t--”

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “I’m curious. You use it and aren’t corrupted by it. Tevinter mages are known for using blood magic, and they haven’t all lost their minds. There must be a balance. Perhaps, the line between good magic and bad is thinner when using blood magic, but there’s still a line.”

“I don’t understand.”

Cullen turns to look at her. Her gaze skitters about, never focusing on one thing for long. She draws her knees up to her chest as if she needs extra protection. “Hadriana didn’t become an abomination. She raised shades which, I don’t think any kind of demon consortion is a good idea, but she used the battlefield to enhance her strength. If you’re interested, and willing, perhaps we should develop your abilities.”

“My...blood magic,” Merrill clarifies as if she isn’t sure she’s hearing correctly.

“Exactly. Using your own blood means taking damage you may not be able to afford if it’s a long battle. But if you can learn to use the blood of our fallen enemies…It’s only a theory, mind you. And I don’t want you to cross any moral lines you’ve set for yourself. Or tempt you into something you’ve remained stalwart against. Just--” He’s a military commander. Or was. It was his role to examine every possible resource and advantage and see how they could use it.

“You hate blood magic.”

“I fear it,” he corrects. Fear leads to hate which leads to Anders blowing up the Chantry. Fear is healthy, it keeps him alive and alert but only if he keeps it in check. “I used to fear all mages. But, when I set aside the fear, I was able to see not all mages were the ones of my nightmares. I did not extend that same courtesy to blood mages. I still believe most of them are dangerous, but you have taught me not all of them are. I would be your assistant in this if you would like.”

“More adventures?”

“More adventures.”

#

He takes Merrill to shake up some smugglers along the coast. Most of them flee when they see a well armored man and an elven mage approach, but one sticks around to fight. Cullen slams his shield into the man’s arm, breaking it. The man draws a knife and tries to stick it in Cullen’s neck.

Merrill blasts him backward and he hits his head on a rock and goes still. Cullen approaches and checks his pulse. “It’s weak. He won’t live long. Do you have your knife?”

Merrill hands it over, hilt first. Cullen studies it. He’s not sure how she acquired it, but it’s well-made, runes etched on the handle to sterilize and cauterize the wounds it leaves behind. Memories threaten to rise up and overtake him. Why a knife like this would be useful. The feeling of blade cutting into flesh. He takes off his gauntlets and pushes his sleeve up until he exposes his forearm.

“Cullen?” Merrill asks.

He grits his teeth and makes a quick incision. Blood wells up even as beneath it, the wound closes. To preserve him for the next cut. He wipes the blade on the smugger’s pants. His grip grows lax as his hand trembles until he drops the knife in the sand.

“Concentrate,” he tells Merrill. “Close your eyes if you need to. Can you sense my blood?”

She closes her eyes and Cullen fights back another wave of fear. What is he doing? Willingingly subjecting himself to a blood mage?  _ She won’t use my blood. That isn’t why we’re here. How can I trust her? _

“Oh.” Merrill’s voice is faraway and full of childlike wonder. “I can feel it. It’s...it’s lovely.”

Cullen grabs the knife and slashes the smuggler’s arm. “Now, there are two blood sources. Can you tell them apart?”

“Easily,” she answers. “He’s...it’s like when you have withered elfroot. It can do the job, but you know it isn’t as good as the fresh stuff.”

“The... _ fresh stuff _ is me. Do not use my blood in your spells. I did this, because I may be injured when we fight, but you do not have permission to power yourself using my blood.”

“No. You’re my ally. But now that I know what you feel like, I won’t do it. His blood, I can feel it congealing. It’s losing strength. May I?”

“Yes.” Whatever spell she wants to cast, let her do it. She draws blood from the smuggler and casts a rain of sparkles in the sky. It’s pretty magic, useless, and Cullen is pathetically glad for it. If she’d cast something offensive...He shakes his head to clear it of memories from Kinloch.

“Could you make another cut?”

Cullen obliges. It’s how it goes for a time, Cullen cutting the smuggler, Merrill casting a spell, and then Merrill asking and starting the cycle over. She never asks for the knife. Does Cullen’s face look that frightened?

Eventually, Merrill says, “I think we’ve had enough practice for the day.”

“One more spell,” Cullen says, “but you don’t need to use blood magic. We need to burn the body.”

“What?”

Cullen gestures to the man’s arms, lines of red up and down them. “The signs of blood magic are obvious. Unless we want to create a scene, it’s best we leave no evidence.”

“Oh.” Merrill glances at Cullen’s arm.

“I’m a soldier. I have many scars.” He rolls his sleeve down and clasps his armor back into place.

#

“So, you and Merrill are spending a lot of time together.” Hawke looks up from his ale and laughs at whatever expression is on Cullen’s face. “Oh, Maker, your  _ face _ . No, not that like. It’s just surprising. You aren’t the biggest fan of mages.”

“I like you well enough.”

“I’m everyone’s exception.” Hawke winks and laughs a little before he grows serious again. “I know I’ve been spending a lot of time with Fenris recently, it doesn’t feel right leaving him on his own, and no one else needs to bear the brunt of his temper. But I can--”

“Merrill and I are bonding. It’s good for her. And...for me. I’m sure she wouldn’t object if you took her on some jobs. The alienage is stifling, all those people packed into such a small place.”

“She seems quite excited about the garden on my rooftop. Anders thinks we should all volunteer for shifts at his clinic.”

“The clinic does a lot of good. It’s too bad he can’t do it more openly.” It’s something Cullen’s considered for a long time. There are healers in the city, sure, some better than others. Some who charge a fair price, some who swindle the desperate. But a free clinic, where anyone can have their wounds healed?

He’s not sure he wants to say every clinic should be free, how would healers make enough coin to survive, but there should be more free clinics for those who don’t have the funds. No one should die of a preventable disease.

He remembers some of his brothers and sisters grumbling about an underground clinic run by an apostate. Some of them believed the elves and mages the apostate treated deserved their misery. Shamefully, there were times Cullen agreed with them. Other times, he thought others were due the healing the apostate gave out without thought to the hierarchy of lives in Kirkwall. As if there’s even such a thing.  _ Are we not all equal in the Maker’s eyes? Oh, so you would allow yourself to be healed over the Inquisitor? _

“First you reach out to Merrill, now you want to befriend Anders?” Hawke holds a hand to Cullen’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever. You don’t have the blight, do you?”

Cullen rolls his eyes at Hawke’s dramatics. “I’m not dying. I don’t always agree with their methods, but they can do good.”

“Maybe in this New Kirkwall we keep talking about, Anders can have a clinic with proper assistants. And Merrill can have acres of land to grow elfroot on.”

Cullen leans back in his chair. He picks the meat off the bones on his plate. They’re eating better with Orana in charge of the kitchens. It took her a few weeks to accept Hawke’s trust and the pouch of coins he gave her for the market. She doesn’t like going without an escort, but Isabela’s always happy for a stroll through the market, and Varric enjoys haggling. Aveline even goes with her sometimes, and it’s Aveline’s sharp stare and the word she’s spread through the city guard which keeps Orana safe when she ventures out on her own. “What are you doing in this future of ours?”

“Oh, you know.” Hawke props his feet up on the table. “Maybe I’ll raise mabari. Juggle. I’m not sure I’m one for a life of leisure. There will probably still be crime in New Kirkwall. Do you think Fenris will stick around if there’s nothing to punch?”

“He would if you asked him.”

“And you?” Hawke slouches more as if his posture will make his words sound casual. “Will you stay?”

“I--” He pauses and it’s the wrong answer, Hawke wants an easy, uncomplicated yes, but it would be a lie. “I would like to. But I know better than to make promises I may not be able to keep. If the Inquisition is formed again, I will serve.”

“I suppose saving the world is a pretty noble calling. I’ll stick with the dogs.”

“I hope you’d send one with me.” Cullen keeps his tone light, hoping to coax a smile from his friend.

“Did you have one growing up?”

“Of course. I’m Ferelden. They didn’t let me bring him with me when I joined the templars.”

“Was the training difficult?”

“I enjoyed it. It gave my life structure. Training and reading and praying, every minute of my day was filled with purpose. I felt as though I was on the path to something. I never reached the end of it, though. I always wondered what I’d find at the end.”

“I was never much for religion.”

“You don’t say?”

Hawke grins. “I get my answers from trial and error not some chant. I guess, the point of history is to list out other peoples trials and errors so you don’t repeat them, but,” he shrugs. “I like learning things firsthand.”

Quiet footsteps pull Cullen away from the conversation. He turns to see Fenris hovering in the doorway as if he isn’t sure of his welcome. He meets Cullen’s gaze and prickles at being caught. “Are you debating philosophy?”

“Sort of.” Hawke waves him in. “Pull up a chair. Are you hungry?”

Fenris wrinkles his nose, the way he does at any mention of Orana and the memories she brings up. He does enter the room, even if he now hovers by the table. “I put out subtle inquiries as to the whereabouts of Varania. My sister,” he adds as if either of them have forgotten. “I made contact and asked her to come to Kirkwall. Aveline has reported her ship docked today. She is staying at The Hanged Man for this week. I want to see her, but Aveline cannot guarantee this isn’t a trap.”

“We can go with you,” Hawke offers. “Tomorrow. If it  _ is  _ a trap, they won’t have had time to prepare yet.”

If it’s a trap, they’re no doubt already in the city and ready, but Cullen doesn’t say so. “If you’d like company, we will accompany you.”

“Hawke’s brother and sister are both dead. So is his mother. He has no family.”

“Hey,” Hawke protests, quietly. “Don’t discount Gamlen. I mean, he’s grouchy and gambled away the family fortune, but when you don’t have anyone, you can’t afford to be picky.”

“Exactly.” Fenris studies his hands, tracing his lyrium marks. “I do not remember her, but Varania may well be the only family I have. I should at least make an effort.”

“It’s settled then.” Hawke sets his drink down. “We’re going to The Hanged Man tomorrow for a reunion. We should turn in early tonight.”

“I don’t wish for anything but sleep,” Fenris says.

“Of course. Fenris in the middle tonight.” Hawke asks. “Any objections? Going once? Going twice?”

Cullen nudges them both toward their bedroom. They commissioned a large bed, one which can easily fit the three of them. Hawke enjoys sleeping in the middle, and he arranges all sorts of ludicrous contests, from arm wrestling to juggling to eating spoonfuls of spices to see who gets to claim the coveted middle spot. But tonight, it’s easy to give to Fenris. Besides, Cullen doesn’t mind the side closest to the door. He keeps his sword under the bed, in easy reach in case he should need it.

Hawke flops down on the bed and takes up so much space, Fenris has no choice but to touch some part of him. “We’re going to need a bigger bed in New Kirkwall,” Hawke says.

“Bigger?” Fenris echoes.

Cullen, who was here for the original conversation, shakes his head as he strips down to his tunic. “No dogs on the bed.”

“Dogs?” Fenris looks between the two of them, suspicious.

“I’m going to retire and become a mabari breeder,” Hawke says. He covers a yawn and tucks himself against Fenris’s side.

“Retire?” Fenris looks to Cullen as if hoping for an explanation, but Hawke keeps talking.

“The Qunari are gone. Cullen and Anders are quasi-friends. We’re going to have peace in Kirkwall soon. Ooh, you know what? Change of plans. I want to be a dragon tamer when I retire.”

“Dragon  _ tamer _ ?” Cullen raises his eyebrows as he climbs into bed. Fenris shuffles closer to him as if looking for comfort from Hawke’s bad ideas.

“I mean, first choice is always to  _ be  _ a dragon. But if one can’t be a dragon, the second best choice is to ride a dragon.”

“So you’ll have a short retirement.”

“Your doubt hurts, Cullen.”

“Hey, Hawke?”

“Yeah?”

“Go to sleep.”

Hawke laughs, but he does quiet down.

Chapter 11

In the morning they eat a hearty breakfast, Cullen’s insistence, in case this is a trap and they need their strength. Afterward, they go to The Hanged Man, no note sent ahead so there isn’t any warning.

Norah smiles at them when they arrive, but her smile falters at the expression on Fenris’s face.

“You have a guest,” Cullen says, gently claiming her attention. “An elf by the name of Varania. Could you tell her she has visitors?”

“Of course.” Norah hurries upstairs. When she returns it’s with a slight elven woman who has deep red hair and bears little resemblance to Fenris except maybe in the sad downturn of her mouth. Cullen studies her for any hint of unease. Did someone follow her here? Is she braced for an attack?

“Varania?” Fenris stands, stuck in place, a hint of disbelief in his voice as if, even after tracking her down and requesting her presence, he still doesn’t believe she’s here. That this is real. “I remember you. We used to play together while our mother worked.” For Cullen and Hawke’s benefit he adds, “The life of a slave wasn’t unbearably difficult. If it was, they would die too easily. We had...downtime. Our favorite game was with a rope we found. We would hold the ends in our hands and swing it and see who could jump over the rope the most times in a row.”

Disbelief melts into wonder as Fenris recalls the memory. He offers his sister a tentative smile. “You have nothing to say? I know it has been a long time. I apologize. I don’t remember much.”

“Your name is Leto.”

“No, his name is Fenris.” The speaker comes down the stairs, an older, bearded man with a staff strapped to his back. Even if Cullen couldn’t see Fenris tense at his side, he would know who this man is.

Danarius.

Glad he brought his sword with him, Cullen rests his hand on the pommel, ready to attack as soon as Fenris or Hawke give the word.

“You led him here?” Fenris asks his sister, a deep ache in his voice like a bruise, pressed so deep it’ll take weeks to heal.

“As a good Imperium citizen should.” Danarius places his hand on Varania’s shoulder and pushes her back and out of the way. “It’s time to come home Fenris.”

“My home is here.”

“Kirkwall?” Danarius wrinkles his nose, the perfect picture of aristocratic disdain.

“With Hawke and Cullen.”

“Them both?” Jealousy flashes across Danarius’s face before he settles for a smirk. “You always did have a large appetite, my little wolf.”

“I’m guessing he’s not going to get any nicer,” Hawke says.

“You will not come peacefully?” Danarius asks. He sighs as if he’s disappointed. As if on cue, mercenaries rush past him, men with blades and bows, ready to attack. Cullen and Fenris fall into position, swords raised.

Normally, they fight in Lowtown or outside. Fighting in a place they know, a place they care about is a challenge. Cullen forces his guilt down as he kicks a mercenary onto a nearby table and smears blood across the surface. He blocks an arrow with his shield, blocks two fireballs, and almost deflects one into Varania. Another factor to keep in mind.

Even if she’s betrayed Fenris, he doesn’t want to be the one to kill her, especially not as collateral damage. He jumps in front of Fenris, his shield taking a strong blast from Danarius’s staff.

“A templar?” Danarius hisses.

With a grin, Cullen calls on his power and suppresses Danarius’s. The man gasps as if not expecting it. Fenris strides up to him, grabs him by the throat and lifts him off the ground. “You are no longer my master.” And then, without using the lyrium markings, he kills the man who has been chasing him for so long.

He tosses Danarius’s body aside and it leaves another large bloodstain on the floor. Then he turns his fury on Varania who huddles by the wall as if it will protect her.

“I had no choice!” she says.

Cullen’s heard this story before.  _ I had to steal, I had no money. My parents are dead, I snuck into the Chantry for a roof over my head. He threatened to kill me _ . He’s heard sad stories, he’s even been moved by some of them. Fenris’s life hasn’t been an easy one. He doubts his sister’s was either.

“He said he’d take me on as his apprentice. He was going to make me a magister!”

Hawke spits on the ground. Cullen’s tempted to do the same. She betrayed her brother for  _ power _ ?

Fenris steps into her space, until she’s pressed against the wall, her eyes wide with terror. “You don’t understand how hard it was! You got those--” she points to the markings on his arms. “You competed against the other slaves for them. You won and you freed mother and I and then you  _ left _ . We almost starved! Mother died because she couldn’t afford a healer. She never would’ve gotten sick if she had a master looking out for her.”

“A master did this to me.” Fenris clenches his fists and his marks light up. “It was so painful I lost all memory of my life before. He turned me into his trained killer. But tell me,  _ sister _ , how hard your life has been.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “Leto--”

He punches his hand through her chest. “My name is Fenris.” He yanks it back out and she drops to the floor. He gives her one last glance before he storms out of the tavern. Cullen tips his head and Hawke jogs after him, leaving Cullen with a dozen bodies scattered throughout the room.

“Norah, it’s safe now.”

She peeks her head over the bar she’d hidden under. She gasps and covers her mouth when she sees the carnage. “I’m sorry. We’ve had brawls, and the occasional death but this?”

“I’ll clean it up,” Cullen tells her. “And we can pay for the damage done.”

“Who was that man?”

“A Tevinter magister. A slave owner. He’s dead now, though.”

“Fenris will be okay?” At first, Cullen thinks it’s a question, but Norah grabs a bucket and a couple rags and starts scrubbing one of the tables. “He will be okay. Messere Hawke will make sure of it.” She scrubs harder at the blood. “What are you going to do with the bodies? Knight-Commander Meredith sent callers out, telling people to stop dumping bodies in the harbor. They fished one out and found scars all over it. Blood magic.” Norah shudders.

“We’ll burn the bodies,” Cullen says.

“Not in here, I hope.”

Cullen laughs, cheered by her practicality. By the time Varric wanders downstairs, rubbing his eyes, the bodies are stacked on a table they deemed unsalvageable. Varric looks from the bodies to Norah, her sleeves rolled up and her hair coming loose from its bun, then to Cullen. “Did I miss some fun?”

“Fenris’s sister brought Danarius with her.”

“Yikes.” Varric nods to the table. “I assume Danarius is there?”

“And the sister. Hawke’s with Fenris.”

“You took the easy job, then.” Varric waves off Cullen’s protest. “I assume you’re going to want a place to burn those. I’ll scout some locations. A bunch of templars came through and hung notices, no more body dumping in the harbor.”

“So I’ve been told. It’s not really my style.”

“The Knight-Commander claims someone’s hiding evidence of blood magic. Do you know what comes after she stirs up hysteria?”

Cullen grimaces. “She’ll volunteer to root out the blood magic in the Circle. It’ll escalate tensions within the Circle while gaining public approval. And those escalated tensions will lead to actual rebellion which will give her an excuse to tighten the noose even more.”

“Ah. Right. I forgot you actually do know her playbook. Is this something we should be worried about?”

“Yes. But this first. No, that’s selfish. We have a large party. Hawke can help Fenris. I can turn the rest of our attention toward Meredith.”

“Well, that was an insightful look into your psyche.” Varric touches elbow. “It’s not selfish to help your friends.”

“What does helping my friends matter if the city falls?” Cullen glances at the bodies. “This first. Then Meredith. I’ve let it sit long enough. Hopefully not too long.”

#

Cullen takes over the drawing room, one of the larger rooms in Hawke’s mansion which currently serves no purpose. He drags a table in and covers it with a map of Kirkwall. Knickknacks from around the manor serve as pieces. There’s the city guard, the templars, the mages, the alienage, so many potential boiling points. Anders’s clinic is marked on his map as well, a reminder to keep a close eye on the man as tensions in the city rise.

Should he bring it up to Hawke? He’s considered it before. Anders mucked things up last time but...this isn’t last time. Putting him under intense scrutiny, could it drive him to making the same mistake? There’s violence in all of them, and they all believe they’re doing the right thing when they swing their sword or shoot an arrow or cast their spell.

Should he stay the course? Try to change and hope Anders sees the effort and joins in rather than blazing his own path?

“Woah, quite the setup you have in here.” Varric wanders in, the rest of them on his heels. “It feels very official.”

Isabela drifts by the table, and Cullen slaps her hand away without looking up. “Don’t move the pieces.”

“Ooh, that rumble of authority really gets me going.”

“No wonder you and Aveline get along so well.”

“Hey!” Aveline objects.

Cullen surveys his table even though he has the layout memorized. It gives him something to do while the rest gather round. Once they’re circling the table, he rocks back on his heels. It’s almost like Skyhold. “With the threat of the Qunari gone, our biggest threat is the rapidly deteriorating relationship between the mages and the templars. If war breaks out between them, it’s the civilians and all of Thedas who suffer.” He doesn’t look over at Anders even though he’s tempted.

“A little dramatic today, aren’t we?” Isabela asks.

“If there’s fighting in the streets, innocents will be caught in the crossfire. Thieves will turn out in full force and people will starve as trade declines, few willing to risk stepping foot in our city.” He holds Isabela’s gaze until she nods, conceding the point. “And as to the rest of Thedas? If Kirkwall’s Circle rebels, it’ll set off a chain reaction across the continent. Everyone will suffer for it.”

“But the mages will be free,” Anders says.

“Many of them will be dead. Even more of then will be Tranquil. Those who survive will be feared, hated, and hunted.”

“ _ He  _ took his freedom.” Anders jabs his finger at Fenris. “He killed to get it, and he killed to keep it. Why shouldn’t mages do the same?”

“Mages have been mistreated,” Cullen says. He ignores Anders’s snort. “But mass murder isn’t the solution. If we can bring about a peaceful resolution--”

“Incremental change?” Anders cuts in, fed up. “How many centuries will it take for us to see anything of value?”

“You think your method would be quick?” Cullen braces his hands on his map and leans forward. “There’s nothing quick about chaos. There will be upheaval, yes. But meaningful change? It won’t come about when everyone is scared of everyone else. Neighbor will turn on neighbor, villages will burn. And when a threat comes along that requires our unity, we won’t be prepared for it.”

“This isn’t a hypothetical.” Hawke slouches against the table and Fenris rescues the salt shaker standing in for the Viscount. “This is what happened in your future. Chaos. Destruction.”

“Yes. I’ve seen the failings of one method. I’m sure there are failings associated with the other. But with all of us working together, maybe we can mitigate the worst of them. Or find another solution.”

“You were a templar,” Hawke says, and he catches Cullen’s gaze and holds it, something gentle in his eyes. “You were also a victim of mages. You said you’ve seen the worst of what both can do. But what does the best look like to you?”

“Freedom,” Cullen answers with a nod toward Anders, “but with supervision. Kirkwall’s mages are kept penned in a  _ prison _ . They’re denied basic decency, is it any wonder they turn to other methods for power or hope? Mages should live side-by-side with the rest of society. We still need templars, in the case of mages who become possessed, willingly or unwillingly. But right now, I fear the templars push mages into positions where they feel they have no other choice.”

Aveline shakes her head. “You’re speaking of radical change. Mages are feared for good reason.”

“We have three of the most powerful mages in the city at this table,” Cullen says. “Are you afraid?” He doesn’t wait for her to answer. “Hawke is a battle mage. If you cross him, you will regret it, but he won’t kill for the sport of it. Anders shares his body with a spirit of justice, but he isn’t an abomination, because he has a strong will. And Merrill, she is a blood mage, the class we’re taught to fear above all and kill on sight. But she’s gentle even if sometimes misguided. If I were truly a templar, all three mages at this table would be dead, but I think Kirkwall, and Thedas, would be less for it. I certainly would be.”

“A pretty speech from a pretty boy.” Anders taps Knight-Commander Meredith’s piece on the table. “Where is your action?”

“He’s helping me with blood magic,” Merrill says, in her quiet, unassuming voice. She ducks her head as everyone’s attention swings to her. “I’ve learned how to use our fallen enemies to feed my spells. I’ll be an asset in fights now.”

“You what?” Varric asks.

Cullen rolls up his sleeve so they can see the thin scar on his arm. “She knows the feel and sound of my blood so she won’t accidentally cast with my injuries and make them worse. If you’re willing, I would like you all to give Merrill a chance to have a sense of your blood.”

“Maybe  _ you’re  _ possessed,” Anders mutters.

“You could’ve used a regular knife,” Fenris says. “It wouldn’t have scarred.”

“I carry the marks of blood magic on my body as signs. Some of survival. Some of...trust.” He gives Merrill a hesitant smile. “But I didn’t call you here for personal stories. We need a plan. Knight-Commander Meredith is relying on fear and tradition. Which means we need to target both. Help convince people mages aren’t as dangerous as she claims, and seed doubt in the templars.”

“Oh, easy stuff,” Varric says.

“We have the Champion of Kirkwall on our side.” Cullen taps the Hawke representative, a miniature mabari. Predictably, Hawke lights up at the sight of it. “He is the most recognized mage in Kirkwall, even moreso than First Enchanter Orsino. And--” he turns to Anders now. “You keep saying you wish your clinic could help more people.”

“Go public with it?” Anders shakes his head. “You’d be inviting templars to my doorstep. I will not be made Tranquil.”

“It’s too soon to go public. But a few discreet house calls, the occasional tour through the alienage or Lowtown. You have Merrill as an assistant, but I’m sure there are others. People trust what they see. Show them mages aren’t to be feared, and they’ll come around.”

“Okay,” Hawke says. “That’s step one. What about step two?”

“There is a faction of templars who already doubt Meredith and her actions.”

“Let me guess, your younger self?” Anders doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing.

“No. He’s misguided and mistaken. He will not be our ally in this. Thrask is one. He actually facilitated a joining of mages and templars. It could have been something good.”

“But this is Kirkwall.” Hawke sighs. “What happened?”

“Blood mages.”

Hawke pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course.”

“But the foundation is there. Templars are trained to remain distant so it’s easier to kill the mages in their charge. It shouldn’t be easy. Killing should never be easy.”

“I feel like I should salute,” Isabela murmurs.

“Cullen gave us the big picture.” Hawke stares out at the map. “Now, each of us takes a smaller bit of it. Anders and Merrill, the healing operation was a good idea. Varric, we should switch the calibre of our jobs. Protection. Maybe something high profile even if it’s low profit.”

“We can do that,” Varric says.

“I’ll reach out to the First Enchanter,” Hawke says. “Start building a rapport. See if there’s anything we can do to help the mages. Aveline, work on cultivating sympathy within the guard. Subtly. Sebastian, see if you can do the same within the Chantry. We need everyone to realize there’s one side. Ours. Cullen, see if you can infiltrate the templar ranks. Reach out to this Thrask fellow.”

“What about me?” Isabela asks.

Hawke glances at Cullen who clears his throat and stares fixedly at the table as he says, “Children. Change, true change, will come with the next generation. We start an orphanage. Isabela, the ones without homes, the ones who are scared, they’ll trust you. We give them a place to live, we give them food, safety. And we show them the world we want them to carry on.”

“You’re an idealist,” Varric groans. “Is it too late not hire you for that first job?”

“Where would we put them?” Isabela asks.

“I have a mansion.” It’s the first time Fenris has spoken, and everyone turns to him, some in shock. “I would have to clear out the corpses, of course. But it’s a very large home. We could take something tainted by magisters and the worst kind of greed and corruption and turn it into something...good.”

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Anders says. “We’re talking about befriending mages. Shouldn’t you be lighting up like a summer storm?”

“I--” Fenris falters and stares at his hands. His marks stay dark. “I have not had good experiences with mages. But if Cullen can learn to look past the worst, then perhaps I can as well. I cannot promise it will be easy or without complication.”

“It won’t be easy,” Cullen says. “For any of us or any of them out there. We’re fighting against what we’ve been taught our entire lives. And for some of us, those lessons have been reinforced by experience.” He’s on the far side of the table so he can’t reach Fenris, but Hawke leans into him, offering support. “We put in the effort and slowly, yes Anders, slowly, we bring about change.”

“Well, that’s enough responsibility for the night.” Hawke claps his hands together. “How about we get drunk?”

Cullen taps the final important piece on the board. The Viscount. “The only person in this room with enough clout to speak to the Viscount is the Champion of Kirkwall. We need him on our side. And we can nudge him toward our priorities. Convince him to make the templars and the mages and the city guard work with us.”

“The Knight-Commander won’t like that,” Varric says.

“Then she won’t remain Knight-Commander for long.”

Varric tips over the piece representing Meredith.

Chapter 12

It takes two weeks to clear out the mansion. It takes another three to properly outfit it. By the time they have bedrooms and playrooms and storerooms, Isabela has a gaggle of orphan children who follow her for the bread rolls she hands out freely and the shiny jewelry she wears.

They follow her all the way to Fenris’s mansion, though they hesitate at the door.

“We’re in Hightown,” one of them says, a little girl who scratches at her exposed arms. They’re covered in red welts and scabs. She scratches at her head next.

“We have a place here for you to stay.” Cullen, without his armor so he doesn’t loom quite as large, goes down to one knee, putting himself on their level. He looks over his shoulder at Sebastian, dressed in the clothes of the Chantry. “We promise you a bed, regular meals, and an education.”

“I can’t read.” This is a freckled ginger, a human boy with wide green eyes and ears he’ll hopefully grow into.

“We can teach you. But education doesn’t always mean reading and writing. You can learn how to tailor, how to garden, how to cook. There are all kinds of educations out there. You can try them until you find one you like.”

An older elven boy draws the children close to him as a stocky human girl steps in front of them, her hands on her hips. “And what do you want for it?”

She speaks with a Lowtown drawl, her vowels rounded and her consonants choppy. She glares at Cullen from under the uneven fringe of her bangs. She doesn’t trust him, and he doesn’t blame her. “There is a lot of suffering in Kirkwall. We want to ease it. This isn’t a loaf of bread to tide you over until the next day. We want to give you the tools to look out for yourselves. You don’t have to accept them. You don’t even have to stay if you do accept at first.”

“Where do you sleep?”

Cullen points to the room to the left of the entrance. “Sometimes, I’ll sleep there. Sometimes Sebastian. Sometimes Isabela. We’ll introduce our other friends before they stay so you won’t wake up to strangers in the house.” He won’t stay here every night, there are some nights he’ll want to spend with Hawke and Fenris, but he won’t promise a home to these children and then abandon them.

“First order of business is a bath.” He keeps his expression neutral as several of them step back. The older girl’s hand creeps toward her belt as if she has a weapon stashed on her. “You don’t have to have one, but if you want to live here, you need to be clean. Either Brother Sebastian or Isabela will help you bathe, and they’ll give you a fresh set of clothes. Then you can pick out a bed and join us for dinner.”

“And if we don’t want a bath?” The girl juts out her chin, defiant.

“Then we give you food and you can return to where you stay.”

She sticks her hand out. “I want it.”

Cullen tucks his disappointment away. He enters the room to the right, and takes a large tray off the table. He returns to entry hall. Every single child tracks his movement, their eyes widen as they stare at his offering of bread, cheese, and fruit. He beckons the girl forward. He hands her two bread rolls, a hunk of cheese for each one, and a peach.

“If you come back tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast,” he says before she can flee.

“I can come every day for food? And it’s free?”

“Yes.” He looks past her to the rest of the children. “Anyone who wants to take dinner and leave, you may. If you agree to a bath and clean clothes, you can have a hot meal. You can still leave afterward.”

“With our new clothes?” It’s the freckled boy.

“Yes.”

“What if we’re hungry now?”

Cullen smiles, sadly, as he thinks of how they’ve struggled. “How about this? Everyone come and take your portion. We can eat together here and then you can decide, return home for the night or stay here.”

He should’ve considered his words, because he’s rushed by children clamouring for food. It takes the help of Sebastian and Isabela to put them in some kind of order. In the end, they each receive their share. A sharp look from Cullen keeps one of the older ones from stealing from one of the smaller ones.

The human girl, the one who made herself defender, stands guard as they eat.

“I’m Cullen,” he tells her. He picks apart of piece of bread, eating without tasting.

“Inara.” She brushes dark hair behind her ear. “Everyone wants something. I’ll figure out your angle.”

“I don’t believe people should suffer if there’s something I can do to stop it.”

She scoffs and turns away from him, not completely, she can still see him from the corner of her eye, she’s too smart to put her back to a threat, but it’s a clear signal she’s done talking.

A little boy with tawny hair and sleepy eyes approaches Cullen, bread crumbs on his dirty shirt and peach juice on his chin. “I want a bath.” He yawns and doesn’t cover his mouth.

“Come with me, little brother,” Sebastian says. “There’s hot water and clean clothes waiting for you.”

“Hot water?”

Five children look up from their meals. Three of them cram all the food they have left in their mouths and rush toward Sebastian. Cullen would smile at their enthusiasm if it wasn’t driven by desperation. As Sebastian and Isabela take the first group for their baths, he stays with the remaining four. Five, if you count Inara.

“I’m Britches,” the freckled boy says. “I’ve had the same pair of pants since I was little. I’ve patched them myself.” He stands up, showing off the battered, mismatched article of clothing. “I don’t want a bath if it means losing my pants.”

“If you want to keep them here, they must be washed,” Cullen says, firmly but not unkindly. “You can help with the wash to make sure they remain undamaged.”

“Your pants are ugly,” Inara says.

“Your face is ugly,” he shoots back.

Cullen can’t help his laugh. They’re poor and orphaned, but they bicker just as he and his siblings did in Ferelden, as he and his fellow recruits did when he joined the Order.

“You’re as ugly as a mabari mutt,” Inara snaps at Cullen, her pride wounded by his amusement.

“I’m Ferelden,” he tells her. “There’s nothing insulting about being compared to a mabari.”

Inara spits on the ground, but she doesn’t leave. No, she lingers near the door, keeping a careful eye on the children with Cullen until the bathers emerge from their rooms. They’re in simple cloth breeches and tunics, their skin freshly scrubbed. Inara waits for the older elven boy to meet her gaze and give the barest of nods before she turns on her heel and leaves.

_ Ah,  _ Cullen thinks, watching the interaction.  _ Putting a man inside to monitor the situation. _ The children are  _ smart _ . He knew they were, they wouldn’t have survived so long on the streets, especially in Kirkwall if they weren’t, but it’s different to see it.

“I’m Dex,” the older elven boy says. He looks over at the children still at the table. “Britches, you should take a bath. The water is hot. And Perri.” The little elven girl who can’t stop itching looks up at him. “You should bathe too. It’ll kill the mites.”

“There’s still hot water?” Britches asks.

Sebastian gestures toward the bathing rooms. It took some time, and coin, in order to install more than one hot water heater in the mansion, but Cullen thinks it’s a worthy investment.

Perri and Britches follow the adults back to the bathing room. The other kids with Cullen make themselves scarce, no doubt hoping to catch up to Inara for the walk back to Lowtown. It leaves Cullen with the freshly bathed children.

“Would you like to eat again now or do you want to see the bedrooms first?”

“I need another fifteen minutes!” Norah calls from the kitchen. She agreed to cook every morning and dinner three times a week if they would match her pay from The Hanged Man. It was an easy decision to make.

“Bedrooms first, then.” He cross the large entry hall and goes up the left staircase. He opens the door and gestures to the line of doors on either side of the hallway. “There are four beds per room. You can share if you like. If you choose a room to yourself now, I can’t promise it will stay that way.”

Dex points to the first room on the left. “This is my room. I’ll share with Perri and Britches.” He points to the next room on the left. “You four can sleep there.”

Sticking together, another sound strategy. And Cullen notes the way Dex puts himself in the room closest to the entrance. He stays in the hallway as the children explore their rooms. The bedrooms aren’t large, but they each fit two bunk beds and two dressers. The bunk beds are pushed against opposite walls. Shelves are built into the walls for the kids to keep their belongings once they have them. Cullen suspects they’ll make more uses out of the loose stones purposefully planted through the rooms, but he hopes one day they’ll feel secure enough to leave their things in the open.

“Blankets?” one of the kids asks.

“A  _ pillow _ ?”

Norah calls out when dinner’s ready, and Cullen gestures for the children to lead the way. They rush into the entry hall and then pause, unsure where to go next. Cullen leads them into the dining room. There are two long tables set up with bench seating. There aren’t enough people here to fill the tables, not yet, but he has hope.

Sebastian, Isabela, Britches, and Perri join them for dinner. Sebastian blesses their meal before they dig in. Perri proudly shows off clean arms and her wet hair. “We had soap! Fancy like those Orlegions. Smell!”

“Orlesians,” Sebastian corrects gently. He leans in and exaggerated sniffs her hair. “ _ My lady _ !”

Perri giggles and shoves potatoes into her mouth. “These are good.”

“Chew first, then speak.”

Britches rolls his eyes. “Chantry people are boring.”

“I used to be a prince.”

Britches studies him, considering. In the end, he shrugs. “Boring  _ and  _ stupid.”

Cullen chuckles and spears one of his potatoes.

“You aren’t going to lecture us?” Dex seems wary, poised for a fight. “If you want to stay with the Chantry, the sisters make you practice your manners and the brothers make you drone on about the Maker.”

Sebastian sucks in a breath, but he keeps quiet when Cullen raises his hand, a plea for patience. “We aren’t a Chantry orphanage. You don’t have to memorize The Chant of Light or learn which fork is the right one to use at an Orlesian banquet. There are rules here, but I hope they’ll be simple ones to follow.”

“Be clean.” Dex cleans the chicken off his plate and wrinkles his nose at the potatoes. “What else?”

“Teasing is okay. Wrestling is okay. But violence, spoken or physical isn’t allowed. This is a safe place.”

“What’ll do you if we break the rules? I don’t see any whips around here.”

“I don’t believe in whipping children. The consequences will depend on what rule your break and why. If you’re a danger to yourself or others here, we will ask you to take a break.”

“Send us away?” Perri scoots closer to Dex.

Cullen points to the chair in the corner of the room. It’s against the wall and faces outward. “It’s a place to take a break and regain your calm, to reflect on your past actions and decide on your future ones. Sometimes, you may need to take a break in your room. But we won’t turn you out.”

They don’t trust him, and they won’t until someone, several someones, break the rules, and they see there isn’t pain or abandonment in store for them here. Cullen wishes he could gather them all in his embrace, promise a better life, and have them believe him. But he told Anders it would be a long, patient road to changing hearts and minds in this city. He reminds himself the same applies here.

They all clear their plates, even Dex who seems to dislike potatoes but has learned to never waste food. After dinner, Dex shows Perri and Britches to their new room. Cullen enters the second bedroom and sits on the chair as the kids burrow under their blankets. “I have a book if you’d like a story before you sleep.”

“We aren’t  _ babies _ .”

Perri pokes her head into the room, dragging her blanket behind her. “I want a story.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” Cullen says. He hides his smile as Britches and Dex join them as well. “And if you don’t want to listen to the story then fall asleep quickly.” He chuckles quietly to himself as the children groan or, in Dex’s case, roll their eyes.

He chose an adventure tale, about a farm boy who, after bandits raid his small town, sets out with his dog to find a settlement and learn to be a warrior so he can avenge his family’s death. It’s an easy read, the words flowing smoothly once he begins. He reads the first chapter and, when he glances up, all four children in beds are fast asleep. Perri is too, leaning against Dex. Britches is another two paragraphs from giving up the fight.

“I guess your book is boring,” Dex says.

Cullen smiles and doesn’t allow the barb to stick. “Would you like to carry Perri to bed or shall I?”

Dex scowls and lifts her. He staggers under her weight, she isn’t very heavy, but he isn’t very strong. Cullen picks up the train of the blanket so Dex doesn’t trip over it. With his other hand, he ushers a sleepy Britches to his room. Once the three of them are in bed, Britches in a top bunk, Perri and Dex on bottom bunks, Cullen retreats to the doorway.

“You know where my room is if you need anything.” He doesn’t expect Dex to seek him out, but he’ll leave his door open in case.

Sure enough, Dex scoffs, and Cullen bids him goodnight. He drifts into the dining room to help clear the plates and finds he has company. Hawke and Fenris sit at the table, fighting over the last sweet roll. Hawke looks up at Cullen’s entrance, surprised, and it’s enough of an advantage for Fenris to win the roll and stuff it in his mouth.

“And I thought I put all the children to bed.”

“Papa Cullen.” Hawke grins, his smile brightening as Cullen flushes. “It’s good. Are you sure we can’t stay with you tonight?”

“We’re easing them into their new home. We’ll save the Champion of Kirkwall for once they’re settled. Besides, it’s their bedtime, but it isn’t mine.”

“Oh?” Hawke perks up, interested. “Can we hold that thought? I haven’t finished dinner.”

“You keep eating,” Fenris says, standing with his usual grace. He slinks over to Cullen, a smile on his face, and a bit of cinnamon on his bottom lip. Cullen almost brushes it away with his finger before he leans in for a kiss instead.

There’s a moment where the kiss is soft, Cullen’s hands rest loosely on Fenris’s arms, afraid to hold too hard and hurt him. But then Fenris backs him into the wall, none too gently, and Cullen remembers that while Fenris is thin and wiry, he isn’t weak. He pins Cullen with ease, both because of the strength in his body and because Cullen has no desire to be anywhere else.

Fenris nips at Cullen’s bottom lip, a tease and a promise for later as he pulls back. He glances over his shoulder at Hawke who now has his feet propped up on the table and a potato speared on his knife. He gestures at them to keep going. “Dinner and a show, it’s almost like a date.”

“You’re impossible,” Fenris says, too fond for his growl to be meant as censure.

“Me? I’m not the one who traveled through time just to have a chance at this.” Hawke gestures to himself, stained tunic, beard that houses crumbs from his dinner, and--is that blood on his arm?

Cullen sighs. “Did you at least visit Anders after the trouble you got yourself into today?”

Hawke points himself as if he isn’t sure who Cullen’s reprimanding. “Get into trouble? Hey, Fenris. We didn’t uh...get into anything today, did we?” He waggles his eyebrows. “Come on, Cullen. We wouldn’t have that kind of fun without you.”

Fenris groans. “Now, I remember why one of us is always kissing him. It shuts him up.”

Cullen laughs and presses a kiss to Fenris’s cheek before he slips out from under him. “We’ll put that thought on hold for when it’s Sebastian or Isabela’s turn to keep watch.”

“Or, we could go back to your room with you.” Hawke pops to his feet as if he thinks he has a winning idea. “There’s a window we can leap out of if we hear the pitter-patter of little feet. I haven’t had a good secret tryst in a long time. It could be fun.”

Cullen looks to Fenris to be the voice of reason, but Fenris tilts his head, considering and then grins. “I’ll go open the window.”

Cullen shakes his head, but he follows Fenris across the hall.

#

Cullen is the first awake or, at the very least, the first out of bed. He doesn’t stomp around, but he doesn’t tiptoe. It doesn’t take long before, realizing there’s someone else awake, the kids emerge from their rooms.

Dex leads the way, Perri at his heels, a hand fisted in his breeches.

“Good morning,” Cullen greets. “Did you sleep well?”

“My blanket is warm,” Britches says. “Can we eat?”

“Let’s go ask Norah how she’s doing.” Cullen leads the kids to the kitchen. Norah looks up from her large pot, ladle in hand, smile curving her lips. Cullen matches her smile. “Good morning, Norah.”

“Just about done,” she says. “Why don’t you show them where the sink is? They can wash their dishes after they use them this morning. I’m paid to cook, not to clean.”

Cullen shows them the sink where each of them wash their hands before he shows where they keep the dishes. Armed with a bowl and spoon, they line up, Perri first, either because she’s the smallest or because they think her wide brown eyes will hurry Norah’s cooking.

Norah ladles a generous portion of porridge into Perri’s bowl. “To the table with you, little one. Cullen, I think I heard some younglings outside.”

“I’ll invite our guests in. Make sure you leave some for yourself.”

“I’m a grown woman, Cullen. You don’t need to fuss over me.” She smiles as she says it so Cullen smiles back and heads over to the front door. He opens it to see Inara and her crew from last night with her. She juts her chin out, challenging.

“You have good timing.” Cullen steps aside. “Breakfast is being served.” They rush inside and he stays in the doorway for a moment, to make sure no one else is going to appear. Their neighbor’s servant narrows her eyes as if she isn’t happy about Lowtown kids running around, but Cullen doesn’t care for her opinion. He’s friends with the Champion of Kirkwall and the Guard-Captain. He’s virtually untouchable.

When he turns around, the kids are all gathered around the table, slurping their porridge. Norah emerges from the kitchen, a full bowl in her hand. She passes it to him on her way by. “I have to chase my lazy sister out of bed. Dishes are waiting for you.”

Cullen laughs, surprising both of them. He takes his breakfast with a nod of thanks. The kids are chatting, in low voices, about last night. Cullen keeps his distance so they’ll continue to talk. It’s what he expected, tentative happiness, a healthy serving of suspicion, and excitement over another meal.

When they finish eating, they each take turn washing their bowl and their spoon and set them on the drying rack.

“You can come back for the midday meal if you would like,” Cullen tells Inara and her crew.

Two of the kids step forward, holding hands. They aren’t the same age, but the have the same button nose and dimpled chin. Siblings, perhaps cousins.

“Can we stay?”

“If you take a bath first,” Cullen says. “I can assist you or, if you and he are willing, Dex can assist you.”

The younger one glances at Inara, but the older one tugs them both forward. “Bath.” Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”

“Of course. I’ll start the water.”

Inara takes her, now smaller, group, and leaves. Dex bathes the two brothers while Cullen finds fresh clothes for them. Then he takes the whole group to the courtyard. The sun isn’t high enough to be warm, but there’s enough light to see easily. Cullen produces a ball. He kicks it to Perri. “Have you ever played football?”

She kicks the ball to Britches who rolls the ball up his leg, pops it up in the air, and uses his head to knock it toward Dex. Dex does a bit of fancy footwork and kicks the ball to Cullen, something challenging in the weight of his stare. Cullen’s a soldier, he has plenty of strength and coordination, even if he hasn’t directed it toward sport. He manages a modest showing before gently nudging the ball to Perri.

They mess around until Britches finds some sticks on the ground and sets up makeshift goals. From there, the kids split themselves into two teams. Cullen ends up on Perri’s team, and he’s pleased to see that when he passes her the ball, the other kids don’t play aggressive defense on her, allowing her to dribble across the courtyard. Their goodwill doesn’t extend to letting her score, but she runs back to Cullen, a bright smile on her face.

“Did you see me?” she asks.

“You were very good,” he tells her. “Now, we have to play defense.”

She chases after Dex and trips but clambers back to her feet. She’s a step behind, making it to Dex in time for him to pass, then making it to that player right before he passes. It’s like a game of keep away, and when her cheer fades into irritability, Cullen sets her on the short wall which lines the courtyard and declares her the referee.

They play until everyone is sweaty and the sun is high in the sky. Once even the older kids are tired, Cullen ushers them to the fountain to splash water on their faces.

“Hungry?” Cullen asks and they swarm him like bees returning to their hive.

The midday meal is a simple one; bread, cheese, some dried fruit, and they eat it in the courtyard, Inara and her band joining them. Britches recounts his exploits on the football field, but his telling leans toward exaggeration.

The brothers finish eating first and they grab the ball and one of their friends and drag him over to pass the ball between them.

“So we can live here and just eat and play all the time?” one of Inara’s kids, a girl with bruises around her wrists sidles closer to Cullen. She watches him from the corner of her eye, poised, ready to run if he does anything to spook her.

“There will be lessons at some point,” Cullen says. “But yes. This is a place where rest and food and play will be readily available.”

“What kind of lessons?”

“Letters and numbers, cooking, gardening, other things if they catch your interest. If Isabela has her way she’ll teach you all to cheat at cards. And if Sebastian has his, you’ll learn the Chant of Light. But it will be your choice.”

“I’m going to learn to embroider!” Britches calls from his game of football.

“Embroidering’s for  _ girls _ .”

“Boys can hold a needle just as well as girls can,” Cullen says mildly. “I know how to sew. I can repair my clothes if needed, though I can’t do anything decorative.”

“You sew?” Perri creeps closer, interested.

“And cook.” Cullen smiles as most of them look surprised. “I even know how to clean up after myself.”

“So you aren’t married,” Inara says. “Else your wife would do it for you.”

“I believe a marriage is a partnership. Even if I was married, I would still cook and clean and mend when it was my turn.”

“I want to learn how to cook,” Perri says.

“You can watch Norah when she prepares dinner,” Cullen says. “And on the nights she isn’t here, you can watch me. I’ll teach you.”

They laze in the sun until Isabela shows up to tease them for it. She sees the sticks planted in the ground and teaches them a game where the objective is to toss as many rings onto the sticks as possible.

Chapter 13

Cullen doesn’t leave the mansion much now that they have fifteen kids living there. He helps Norah with breakfast in the morning, feeds the kids breakfast, teaches letters and numbers for the first part of the morning, organizes games for them to play until the midday meal, and oversees the mad rush for food after they’ve worked up an appetite. The hour after the midday meal is quiet time, some of the kids nap, some look at books, others practice their letters on the sand boards Sebastian makes for them.

After quiet time is the second set of lessons. Sebastian, Isabela, Merrill, sometimes even Varric stop by and teach something they know well. Sebastian shows them how to make snares and traps, ostensibly for hunting small animals in the wilds but, since they’re in Kirkwall, it’ll be more likely for trapping rats. Isabela has a steady hand and an eye for pretty things, she’s the one who shows them how to cross stitch and embroider. Varric’s even better with numbers than Cullen, but he’s also a soft touch, and the children know how to distract him by begging for stories.

Merrill is a favorite among the kids, because she teaches them about plants, bringing them up to the roof where they have a vegetable and herb garden growing now. Perri in particular is very excited to eat something they’ve grown themselves.

Cullen finds himself as exhausted as the kids. By the end of the day, even if he isn’t the house parent as Isabela’s taken to calling it, he isn’t up to a trip to the tavern. The only reason he makes it to Hawke’s for the night is because it would be embarrassing for Hawke and Fenris to drag him there.

Tonight, Cullen waves to Sebastian and heads down the street. He covers a yawn and wonders if they can start doing a bit of training with the kids. They play a lot, football, ring toss, they’ve even set up an acrobatics course, but he wants them to all have the basics of self-defense. And, even if it worries him, he thinks weapon training might be good as well. Sebastian’s already offered to teach archery. And Fenris, who has mostly stayed away, has offered his services as well.

Voices drift from Hawke’s mansion, he recognizes Aveline’s and Anders’s, and he puts on a smile even though he’d rather not have to talk anymore tonight. Aveline came to Fenris’s mansion once, but the kids were frightened of her, most of them don’t have good experiences with the city guard, and she hasn’t been back since. Anders comes twice a week, to give lessons on healing and to check the kids over for any bumps, scrapes, or illnesses.

Cullen pushes the door open and pauses when he realizes they have company.  _ Royal _ company. He stares at King Alistair, too shocked to remember his manners.

Alistair stares right back, but he’s always been a bit of an odd king, a simple childhood followed by templar training then Grey Warden training.

“Cullen, is that you?” Alistair asks.

“No,” Cullen answers, because he isn’t the Cullen Alistair knows and this is a bad, bad idea.

“You know King Alistair?” Aveline asks. She sounds betrayed, as if Cullen should have arranged for a formal introduction between them long before this.

Alistair laughs and waves at Cullen to come forward. “Our first meeting isn’t the kind of thing anyone would soon forget.” Cullen winces at the reminder and Alistair coughs awkwardly. “Yes, well, you probably  _ have  _ tried to forget about it. Uh, apologies.” He pauses and narrows his eyes as he looks Cullen over. “The years have not been kind to you. Er, I should probably stop talking.”

“How’d you two meet?” Aveline looks between them, clearly hoping for a good story. “Did you meet the Hero of Ferelden as well?”

Varric leans forward in his chair, as interested as everyone else at the table. Cullen’s honestly surprised he doesn’t know already, he assumed Varric knew everything about everyone.

“I believe I was about to tell you about a charming elven assassin I met named Zevran,” Alistair says, doing his best to redirect the conversation.

“Kinloch,” Cullen blurts out and the entire table freezes. “I met King Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden when they rescued me from Kinloch.”

“Rescued?” Aveline asks.

Anders’s gaze is particularly heavy as he studies Cullen. “The mages at Kinloch overthrew the templars. I heard they resorted to blood magic to try and escape.”

“Yes, well.” Cullen clears his throat. “The Hero of Ferelden had good timing. But…” He studies Alistair for a moment, weighing his options. He isn’t the Cullen Alistair remembers, too old. What if he runs into Knight-Captain Cullen while he’s here? It could cause problems. “I would rather hear of how you and the Hero survived slaying the archdemon. I heard there was a special ritual involved.”

Alistair flushes and fumbles for his drink. “It, ah, yes. Rather unconventional so we don’t talk about it much. Let’s just say, the Maker had a plan.”

Varric, predictably, senses a good story. “Unconventional is right up our alley. I always wondered how you both survived. I always thought the warden who delivered the final blow had to die.”

“There was a ritual, as I said. It...I did say it was unconventional, correct?” Alistair is blushing which is an interesting reaction. “We traveled with a lovely young woman named Morrigan, a mage, very sheltered.”

“Like me?” Merrill asks.

“Different kind of sheltered. You may have heard of her mother, Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds.”

“Oh, I’ve met her,” Aveline says. “She saved us from the darkspawn.”

“She can turn into a dragon,” Hawke says.

“Yes, well, she’s also quite knowledgeable. Anyway, I’m not quite sure on the why, but the how of it was, Morrigan and I produced a child, and when the Hero killed the archdemon, the unborn babe absorbed the magic, and we all survived. Including the babe. She’s now a terror. Not an actual terror, I can see why you might think that. She likes to climb things.”

“The princess of Ferelden is a magic demon baby?” Hawke asks. “Maybe I should move back to Lothering after all.”

Cullen clears his throat, reclaiming Alistair’s attention. “The reason I asked, is I wanted to know if you were predisposed to...odd happenings. What you said earlier, about the years not being kind to me. The years  _ have  _ been kind. But there have been many more of them than you believe.”

Hawke sits up straighter in his chair as if he realizes where Cullen is headed.

Cullen takes a deep breath. “Several months ago, I was fighting in a battle, and a time spell went wrong and sent me backward in time. I am quite older than the Cullen you would expect to see, the Cullen you would see if you want to the templar barracks and asked for Knight-Captain Cullen.”

Alistair glances into his cup as if there answers there. Finding none, he looks around the table. At their serious expressions, he swears softly to himself. “You’re from the future?”

“Yes. A future that, Andraste willing, won’t come about.”

Alistair taps his cup on the table. “ _ You  _ should be telling the stories tonight, not me.”

“Yours are better.” Cullen sits between Fenris and Hawke and accepts the plate Fenris nudges toward him. “We know they have a happy ending.”

“Yours…?”

“I’ll never know the ending. I like to think it was a good one.” That they defeated Corypheus. The Inquisitor was finally able to take the nap she was always joking about. Dorian and Iron Bull stopped using constant warfare as an excuse not to talk about their feelings. Josephine and Vivienne teamed up to throw the most terrifying and lavish celebration ball. Cassandra became the new Divine, determined to usher the world into a better, more peaceful age.

And Cullen? What would he doing in that world? Doesn’t matter. He isn’t a part of that world anymore. He’s here, with new friends, with a house full of rowdy children who are growing almost too fast for their clothes to keep up. He swears he lets out Perri’s pants every week. She’s sprouting up like their bean plants.

Alistair clears his throat. “Zevran. He--” Alistair’s cuts himself off, his mouth falling open as Isabela saunters into the room. “You?”

“You know Isabela?” Aveline asks. “Has  _ everyone  _ met King Alistair except for me?”

“King?” Isabela looks him over. “If I’d known you were royalty, I might’ve tried harder to get you to join us.”

“Us?” Hawke asks.

Isabela laughs as she drops into the chair next to Merrill. “Me, Zevran, and Leliana. She was a sweet thing but knew more than she let on.”

“Leliana?” Cullen repeats. “You slept with Leliana?”

“You know her?”

Cullen tries to picture the Inquisition’s spymistress and Isabela. And then he adds an elven assassin in there and...best not to think about it. He may not have met Leliana in this time yet, but she’d probably show up and gut him in his sleep if she ever had an inkling he was imagining her like that.

“We were....”  _ friends _ “...colleagues. You knew her in her younger days?”

“I’m not sure we would have pushed back the Blight without her,” Alistair admits.

“I only knew her for one night,” Isabela says. “But it was a very memorable night.”

“We need fresh drinks,” Hawke decides.

He disappears into the kitchen and Merrill, catching up with the conversation says, “Three of you?” in a scandalized tone. Then, somewhat wondering, “How did it work?”

“You don’t ask questions about the demon baby but you ask about a threesome?” Anders asks.

Isabela tuts and loops her arm over Merrill’s shoulders. “You see, darling, people are like puzzle pieces. They have ends,” she wiggles her fingers, “and they have holes. The basics of it, are ends go in holes. Lots of different combinations, no matter who you have in bed.”

“Well, you aren’t in charge of sex education,” Cullen says.

Isabela laughs. “I’m sure those kids know more than you, Pretty Boy, and they won’t blush half as much when they talk about it.”

“Kids?” Alistair asks. “Oh, Hawke was telling me about your orphanage. I think it’s a wonderful idea. Do you have favorites? I bet you have favorites.”

“No,” Cullen says even as Isabela says, “Perri,” and Merrill says, “Inara.”

“Inara?” Anders looks at Cullen, confused. “She’s one of the ones who stays on the street. She comes by the clinic a lot. She’s a scrapper.”

“She stays to protect the other kids,” Cullen says. “She brings them by for food once or twice a day, but she won’t come live with us. I’ve at least convinced her to stick around for lessons sometimes.”

“And the occasional bath. She’s not as dirty as she used to be. It means I don’t have to worry as much about infection.”

“You have quite the crew here,” Alistair says, something wistful in his tone. “I’m glad we ended the Blight, but I miss running around. If you’re ever offered a crown, say no. Dreadfully boring business, ruling a country.”

“I’m happy to switch places with you,” Isabela says. “Your wife’s hot.”

Alistair laughs and raises his drink in a toast.

#

“So,” Anders says. It’s three days since Cullen accidentally walked in on Alistair’s royal visit. It’s the first time Anders has caught him alone. They’re in Fenris’s mansion, Anders has put some salve on skinned knees and scratched up palms, treated Britches’s fever, and kissed Perri’s stomach after she complained of a bellyache.

She bounded off to play football after which Anders shook his head at with a smile before he grew serious.

“I ran from Kinloch, but I still kept in touch with some mages from there. I heard what happened. The official story.” Anders’s gaze is heavy, searching and even though he  _ knows _ , Cullen still can’t bring himself to say anything. “When the templars realized what was happening they, and a few mages on their side, sealed off the tower. The templars trapped with Uldred and the others were used to power their spells. They all died. All of them, except one.”

Cullen bows his head.

“If I had been there…” Anders continues to stare. “Is that why you fear me? Do you think I would have joined them?”

“They wanted freedom no matter the cost. But--” Cullen clears his throat. He forces himself to meet Anders’s gaze, despite how difficult it is. “I don’t know what you would have done if you were there. I don’t blame you for actions you haven’t taken.”

“You blame me for something I have done. But, not something I’ve done  _ yet _ .”

Cullen turns away. “The children--”

“Are playing. Whenever you talk about the future, about the war between mages and templars, you don’t look at me. No, you purposefully look away from me. Something happened. Something I did. Tell me.”

“Tensions between the mages and templars were high, but nothing had tipped it into outright war. You thought a battle was needed so you provided the tipping point.”

“What did I do?”

“You planted a bomb in the Chantry. It exploded, killing everyone inside. It went off while Hawke was trying to negotiate peace between First Enchanter Orsino and Knight Commander Meredith. When she realized a mage destroyed the Chantry, she ordered the Right of Annulment. Hawke argued against it, sided with the Circle mages, and the Kirkwall rebellion began.”

“I--” Anders sits heavily on one of his sick beds. “I can understand why I did it. That’s horrible isn’t it? Why haven’t you told Hawke? Or knifed me?”

“I told you, I don’t blame you for actions you haven’t taken. In my time, you committed a heinous act, but I hope this time will be different. Hearing it from Hawke later, Justice was more in control than you were. You didn’t see any other options. I want you to know, this time, there are options.”

“But if I lean toward this path again...”

“I will kill you,” Cullen promises. “What happened last time cannot happen again. The brothers and sisters in the Chantry were innocent. And the Circle mages did nothing to deserve a death sentence.”

“What about me?”

“You died, not that it could undo what you did. You thought you died a martyr.” Hawke told him this story at Skyhold, after he came to help the Inquisition. He was quite drunk, recounted what truly happened that day, laughing a little because Anders meant it to be his last stand, his grand, shining moment, but most people still believed Hawke was the one who caused the explosion. “You didn’t. No one remembered you.”

Anders glows white for a moment, Justice trying to escape, but Anders holds him back. “Like you said, there are other options this time. I still think they’re too slow.”

“How’s your clinic?” Cullen leads them from the room, hoping to leave behind their dark conversation. “Is anyone giving you trouble?”

“With Fenris lurking in the shadows and Hawke loudly walking by every other day, no one dares bother me. Did you know your younger self came by the other day?”

“What?” Cullen certainly didn’t know. Anders didn’t tell him so how would he have found out? It isn’t like he meets regularly with his younger self for drinks and gossip.

“He was very distressed, worried about being caught talking to an apostate, I’m sure. But he asked me to keep an eye out for a former templar. A man named Samson. Asked me to help him if I could.”

“Ah.” There goes having a lighter conversation. “You won’t be able to help him. He was tossed out of the Order and was cut off lyrium. He isn’t handling the withdrawal well, but a healer can’t do anything for him. Not even one as talented as you.”

“How are you handling the withdrawal?”

Cullen absolutely doesn’t want to discuss this with Anders. He ducks into the courtyard, with all the kids, and ends the conversation. Perri, dangling upside from one of the bars they set up, waves. “I can do a flip! Wanna see?”

Cullen leans against one of the columns and watches Perri do flips and tricks on the bars until all his darker thoughts are pushed to the back of his mind.

#

“Kinloch,” Fenris says.

It’s another night at home--at Hawke’s mansion--with no royal visitors this time. Cullen was hoping for a quiet evening, maybe some light reading, Hawke’s amusing attempts to coax them into bed. This was not on his agenda for the night.

He glances at Hawke, hoping for a rescue. If anyone could smoothly segue from torture to sex it would be Hawke. But Hawke draws his shoulders up and takes a step backward. “I can--”

It takes Cullen a moment to realize he’s offering to leave, as if he believes having a mage in the room might be triggering. Cullen wonders what he’s done to make Hawke think he’s unwelcome. “Stay,” Cullen says. “Why does everyone want to talk about Kinloch all of a sudden? Don’t you have things in your past you’d rather not return to?”

“I can’t remember most of my past,” Fenris says. “What I do remember, fuels my anger. Hawke thinks by talking, I might find peace with it.” Fenris’s tone suggests he isn’t nearly as optimistic.

“I’ve made my peace with Kinloch.”

“Have you?” Hawke asks.

“Am I having nightmares again? I can stay with the children, wear my gag again. I--”

“Hey, no.” Hawke holds his hands out as if he’s trying to soothe a dragon. “We aren’t kicking you out. But it’s obvious you’re unhappy, and we care about you so we want that to change.” Hawke looks over at Fenris for backup and Cullen realizes this is an  _ intervention _ .

“We don’t have to talk,” Fenris says.

“Well, I’m certainly not in the mood for anything else since you brought up torture.” Too late, Cullen realizes he’s given something away. He scowls and sits down in a hard backed chair. He tosses the cushion on the ground. He doesn’t want anything soft. “Several mages went abomination. They trapped some of their fellow mages and several templars in the tower with them. And then they got to work. Mages, because of their magic, make for good fodder for blood magic. So do templars. It’s the lyrium in their system. I was an especially good stock. Instead of draining me and killing me, they kept me alive. Bled me a little every day, gave me elfroot so I’d heal and they could do it again the next day. I used to have a terrible reaction even to the scent of elfroot. It was quite embarrassing.”

Meredith, of course, wouldn’t hold for weakness within her guard. Even though she knew what happened, as Knight-Commander she had the full reports on all those in her charge, she forced him to confront it. Eventually, he stopped flinching at the sight of the bottles, he wasn’t sucked into memories at the scent. The taste still makes him gag, just a little bit, another way Kinloch marked him.

“One day, they used my blood to kill one of the other abominations. They made me thank them for doing it.” He resisted at first, he resisted every damn thing they did to him, not that it made a difference in the end. He bled for them, cried for them, healed for them, eventually broke for them.

“They tortured their fellow mages. Asked me if I was proud of them for doing the work of the Templar Order. For a while, Uldred made me call him Knight-Commander and report to him on each day; my pain, the spells they used my body for, how I felt about my accomodations. One time--”

Cullen breaks off and looks past Fenris’s stony expression and Hawke’s horrified one, looks deeper at memories he’s done his best to forget. “One time, they handed me the knife. Promised if I opened my own flesh, they would spare Regan. She was a templar, and the only one besides me to still live. Us and the abominations. I cut into myself. Uldred used my blood to choke the life out of her. And then I was the only one they had to play with. I begged for them to kill me. I stole a knife once, not one of their bloods knives, an actual one. And instead of trying to do something good with it, I turned it on myself.”

Cullen traces the smooth skin of his wrist. “Two neat incisions on either side. I sat against the wall, put my arms behind my back and waited. But they caught me. Uldred used my own blood to power the healing spell. I don’t remember much after that. The Hero of Ferelden arrived, and I was quite rude to her. She’s a mage, you know.” Silly, of course they know. The Hero, the Champion, and the Inquisitor, all mages.

Silence meets Cullen’s confession and he laughs, bitter. “Not the conversation you were hoping for?”

“I can’t believe you’re helping Merrill,” Hawke says.

“It took me a long time to reach where I am today. My younger self would kill her on sight. But magic, even blood magic, it’s a weapon. I’m not wary of every member of the city guard when I see them carry their swords. I don’t hunt down every man or woman who wields a bow and arrow. Certain mages have done me terrible harm, yes. But I have done the same. I left Kirkwall when a Seeker approached me to join the Inquisition. I wasn’t certain of my worthiness. I found a statue of Andraste. I asked her if this was my opportunity to atone. She didn’t answer then. But when we were on the ship leaving Kirkwall, there was a terrible storm. The captain said he’d never seen anything like it. He couldn’t believe we survived. And I had my answer. I haven’t always liked it. There are days I wish she’d wrecked our ship, same as there are days I wish I’d bled out in Kinloch. But there are more days when I am, if not happy, at least content, and it’s enough.”

Another silence, longer this time. Fenris stands up and approaches Cullen, slowly, giving Cullen time to react, but without hesitation. When Cullen doesn’t stop him, he places a knee on either side of Cullen’s waist, straddles him on his chair.

He places his palm flat against Cullen’s chest. His skin is warm through the thin material of Cullen’s shirt and when Cullen closes his eyes, he imagines he can feel the thrum of lyrium in Fenris’s veins.

“You once asked me what it felt like to hold your heart in my hand.”

Cullen opens his eyes Fenris glows, almost too bright for him to stand. His hand passes through Cullen’s chest and his fingers curl around Cullen’s heart, tender, despite holding Cullen’s life in his grip. Or, perhaps, because of it.

Cullen gasps even though it doesn’t quite hurt. His eyes water and he blames it on the bright light. Somewhere else in the room, Hawke protests, but it fades quickly as all of Cullen’s attention is consumed by the elf above him.

“I feel powerful, knowing I can decide whether you live or die in this moment. I feel fury and a strange possessiveness that anyone else has had this same opportunity. And I am awed at the trust you place in me that you didn’t even blink when I did this.”

“I,” Cullen pauses, surprised his voice works even though he had no reason to think it wouldn’t. “Awed is a bit of a stretch. I’ve confessed to you two times I’ve wanted death to find me. Maybe I’m hoping you’ll do what Andraste did not.”

“You cannot lie to me,” Fenris says.

“Because you can feel the beat of my heart?”

Fenris withdraws his hand. “Because I know you.” He touches his forehead to Cullen’s and breathes deeply. “None of us have had an easy journey, arriving to this moment. But we are here now. I cannot say it’s worth everything that led me to this point, but I am glad there is happiness for me in this world.”

Hawke joins them and places a hand on each other their shoulders. “Cullen should be in the middle tonight.”

“I don’t need--”

Hawke hushes him. “We’re offering. Come on, I’ll tell you about the time darkspawn killed my sister and my brother. It’ll cheer us all right up.”

Chapter 14

“Inara hasn’t shown up for two days,” Cullen says.

Yesterday, it pinged as odd when she didn’t show up. She isn’t one to turn down free food and while sometimes she misses one meal, she’s never missed all three. To miss two days in a row…

Cullen looks to Dex as he braids Perri’s hair. “What do you think?”

“I don’t like it.”

“Me either.”

Dex ties off Perri’s braids and gives her a little push. She runs toward Britches and steals the ball from him. She’s improved leaps and bounds since they first started kicking the ball around. Sebastian and Merrill arrive for morning lessons, and Cullen pulls them aside. “I’m going to be gone, I’m not sure how long. Can you work with the others to make sure there’s coverage?”

“Gone?” Merrill’s voice climbs upwards before she looks around and lowers it. “Where are you going?”

“Inara’s missing. I’m going to take Dex, and we’re going to find her.”

“Take Anders,” Sebastian says.

Cullen shakes his head. “He’s needed at his clinic. If she’s in true danger, I can stabilize her long enough to bring her to the clinic.”

“Then take Hawke. You should have a mage with you.”

“Hawke isn’t subtle.” They finally introduced the children to their shadow patron, and they were all suitably impressed by a personal visit from The Champion of Kirkwall. Little Perri has taken to waving her hand around to try and cast magic so she can be just like him. “This is a quiet operation.”

“I’ll come with you,” Merrill says. “Sebastian can help with the garden while I’m gone. I’m not Anders, but I can do a bit of healing. And we know I have plenty of offensive power if things turn ugly.”

“Very well.” Cullen leaves the two of them to move through the kids. There’s too many for them to all fit in the courtyard now, but those who aren’t playing football are playing chess or reading to each other or knitting. They all have ways to pass the time, and Cullen has to gently turn down their requests for his attention as he finds Dex.

He walks with the older boy toward the armory where they keep their training weapons under lock and key. Within the training room there is a solid chest with a lock even Varric has to try to pick. Cullen opens it under Dex’s curious gaze.

“I’m going to find Inara. Would you like to come with me?”

“Yes.” Without waiting for an invitation, Dex steps forward to peruse the weapons in the chest. These aren’t training weapons, blunted so they bruise instead of cut. They aren’t the highest quality either, but they’re more than serviceable. Dex sifts through the offerings until he pulls out two daggers.

Cullen puts a hand on Dex’s wrist and the boy stills, and then scowls. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I know. I’ve helped you practice, but we might get into real fights, not friendly bouts in the practice ring.”

Dex snatches his hand away. “I was somebody before I came here.”

“ _ I know _ .” Cullen takes a deep breath. It isn’t Dex’s fault his patience is thin. “You’re quick and you know where to strike. Wait for me to charge in first. Once I’ve drawn the attention, sneak up from behind.” He lays his hand on Dex’s wrist again. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Come on, we’re wasting time.”

Cullen locks both the chest and the door before he follows Dex outside, where he’s in a staring contest with Merrill. He breaks it so he can scowl at Cullen. “We don’t need a gardener.”

“I’m more than a gardener,” Merrill says.

“Then how come you don’t practice with us?”

Merrill glances at Cullen as if looking for permission. Cullen motions to the staff strapped to her back. “Not all mages broadcast themselves like Hawke. Now, are you going to keep arguing against help or are you going to tell us where to start looking for Inara?”

“There’s a boy,” Dex mutters. “Follow me. And don’t be weird.”

“Weird?” Merrill asks.

Dex groans and picks up his pace.

Dex leads them to Lowtown, to the shanties where the poorest live with rats for company. It’s mostly adults down here, but occasionally a couple of older kids will band together and manage to hold onto a place with a roof, even if it leaks, and a door, even if it doesn’t hold up under much pressure.

Dex practically rips this one off its hinges. He stalks into big room which makes up the home, looking almost like Fenris with rage coiled into his muscles. The boy in the corner spots them and crams the rest of his food into his mouth as if to make sure they don’t steal it.

“I don’t want your moldy bread,” Dex says. He takes out out of his daggers and uses the point of it to lift the boy’s chin. There’s stubble growing on the boy’s face which means he’s older than Dex, possibly older than Inara. He has dark circles under his eyes and dirt under his fingernails.

He seems harmless, too soft to be a fighter, and too poor to have much leverage. Cullen’s curious how Inara knows him.

“Where’s Inara?” Dex demands.

“Inara?”

Dex grows and digs the tip of his blade into the boy’s skin until it draws blood. Cullen sighs and pulls Dex back. “You have heart but you aren’t an interrogator.” Cullen crouches in front of the boy. “We’re looking for Inara. We’re afraid something happened to her.”

The boy’s gaze darts to Dex and his knife before he returns to Cullen. He doesn’t seem to notice the sword strapped to Cullen’s waist. “She, uh, she’s living well. She’s clean and has nice clothes, and she’s been eating. You can tell. Her uh,” the boy glances at Merrill now and, instead of saying the words, cups his hands under his pecs to illustrate breasts, “they’re getting bigger.”

Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, she’s healthy and her body is responding accordingly.”

“People have noticed.”

“Which kinds of people?” Dex growls.

“Timmonds. Others too but…” the boy trails off as Dex throws his knife at the wall. It sticks in the wood, and he draws his second.

“Where will we find Timmonds?” Cullen asks.

“His family has a nicer place, but you won’t find Inara there. Timmonds tried to, uh, you know.” The boy doesn’t know where to look so he stares at the floor. “Inara’s pretty, you know? But she’s too smart for him, right? So she turned him down and he didn’t like it. He told her if she wanted to sell herself for three-squares then he’d help her.”

“Timmonds sold her to  _ slavers _ ?” Dex raises his hand as if he’s going to throw his second knife.

Merrill catches his wrist. “You should not kill the messenger. It is not his fault your friend was taken.”

“When?” Cullen asks.

“Yesterday.” The boy shifts so Cullen’s body is between him and Dex. “There were three of them and they had real weapons. And a mage! I couldn’t do anything. But I listened. They weren’t leaving until they had a full shipment. I warned all the other kids to hide.”

“You did well,” Cullen says. “Did you hear anything else? Did they hint as to where they’re going?”

The boy shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I was scared. Inara’s my friend, but you have to watch your own back first.”

“I understand,” Cullen says, and he does, but he would never make that choice. “One more question, and we’ll leave you be. Where can we find Timmonds?”

#

Nice for Lowtown still isn’t nice, but Timmonds and his family live only a few houses down from Gamlen. When Hawke’s uncle notices them, he wisely backs into his house and shuts the door. Cullen knocks on the door where Timmonds supposedly lives and a boy with pinched eyes and a haughty tilt to his nose opens the door.

Cullen isn’t positive they have the right house until the boy spots Dex and tries to slam the door shut. Cullen steps forward and the boy isn’t strong enough to push him out. He tries the second best thing, which is to run, but Cullen is much faster than him.

“Mother!” he shouts.

A woman wearing a dress far too fine for this part of the city rushes into the room, a man on her heels. Cullen, who grips their son by the scruff of his neck, smiles placidly at the two parents. He no longer needs to ask if they were involved, he can see from the mother’s dress and the father’s boots that they were. He has other questions which needs to be answered.

“How many?”

“I don’t know who you are, but you’re trespassing.” The father blusters well, but Cullen isn’t intimidated by a man who thinks his clothes make him important.

“How many what?” Merrill asks.

“Look at the mother’s dress,” Cullen says. No reason this can’t be a teaching moment provided it doesn’t take too long. “What do you see?”

“It’s very pretty. Oh! It’s pretty.”

“Timmonds and his family have been selling children to slavers. It means you have nice clothes, good food, quite a cozy life you’ve made for yourselves.”

Timmonds tries to wriggle free, but Cullen’s grip doesn’t weaken. Merrill’s still confused. “Why stay here then? Isn’t slavery a lucrative business? A bad business!” she quickly adds at Dex’s glare.

“Ah.” Cullen’s gaze sharpens as he turns to the mother, the mastermind behind this little enterprise. “But how would they find their victims if they weren’t in Lowtown? And some people enjoy being large fish in a small pond. But those days are over. You targeted these children, because you thought no one would notice. We’ve noticed.”

“You--” the father looks to the mother for help.

“I don’t believe in hurting children,” Cullen says. He pushes Timmonds forward and in the same motion grabs the father. “I’m more flexible when it comes to adults. I want everything you have on these slavers; their names, where they hide out, where they stash the children they steal. If you tell me everything, and quickly, I will consider being merciful.”

“And if we don’t?” The mother holds her head high, less worried now that her son is tucked under her arm.

“Merrill?”

Merrill draws her staff, and it glows in her grip.

“You aren’t safe,” Cullen tells mother and son. “Give me my answers.”

“The caves outside the city!” the father blurts.

To reward him, Cullen eases up on his hold so the man can breathe easier. “There are a lot of caves outside the city.”

“They’re from Tevinter!”

“Rinald!” the mother hisses.

“Rinald has the right of it,” Cullen says. “Protecting the slavers won’t help you. Here are your options. You tell me where they are, I find them and kill them all so you don’t have to worry about retribution. Or, you try and keep your secrets, and I pry them out of you. Dex, could I borrow one of your blades? Mine’s too large for delicate work.”

“They wear tunics with a bloody sun on them,” Rinald says, his words rushing from his mouth. “They don’t sail until they have at least fifteen slaves. They don’t always want children. We don’t provide all of them.”

“Rinald!”

“It’s okay,” Cullen tells the wife. “You can keep those secrets for now. You’ll need them.”

“For what?”

Cullen binds Rinald’s hands with his own belt. It isn’t the best restraint, but it’ll work. “Leverage.” He pushes Rinald toward Merrill and turns to the mother and son. “Will you come come peacefully?”

The mother shoves her son at Cullen and bolts. Cullen dodges the boy and gives chase. He’s stronger, faster, and better trained, and he catches the woman before she makes it halfway down the hall.

“I’ll scream,” she threatens.

When Cullen binds her wrists with the cord from her curtains, she screams as loudly as she can. Cullen grits his teeth against the piercing sound and drags the woman from her home. She kicks at him and screams louder, and the neighbors all come out to watch.

“They hurt my son!” she shouts.

Three guards come running over, their swords bared. They skid to a halt when they spot Cullen and share a confused look between them.

“Ah,” Cullen says. “Good morning. I hope Guard-Captain Aveline is well.”

“She is.” The one on the left glances at the two bound adults and the kid who looks ready to bolt. “Can I ask what’s happening here?”

“This is Rinald, Timmonds, and the woman of the house, I didn’t catch her name. They have been directing slavers toward orphan children. I trust you can handle the situation from here? We have pressing business elsewhere.”

“I, uh, yes. Of course. Slavers, you say?”

“They won’t give Kirkwall anymore trouble,” Cullen promises.

The family in Guard custody, Cullen leads the way outside the city. None of them speak as they wind their way up the paths until they reach one of the smuggling caves. There’s no flag with a bloody sun hanging outside it and a quick search turns up nothing. They move to the next cave.

By the third, Dex is growing antsy. When they reach the fifth cave, the sun is beginning its downward descent. Cullen hopes their search doesn’t bleed into tomorrow. He knows time is against them. The longer it take takes them, the higher chance Inara will be taken beyond their reach.

Voices drift up through the cave mouth, and Cullen holds a hand up for silence. Merrill and Dex hold themselves still, even breathing shallowly to make as little noise as possible.

“You won’t get away with this.” Inara’s voice is angry, spirited, a sign they haven’t broken her.

“Your boyfriend gave you up.”

Cullen creeps forward. Light from torches shines against the dark walls, the stones swallowing most of the light, but there’s enough for them to see their path.

“He’s not my fucking boyfriend. As soon as I get out of here, I’m going to kill him.”

“The only place you’re going is a boat to Tevinter. Someone will have their work cut out breaking you.”

Dex has heard too much. He rushes forward, and Cullen hurries after him. The two sentries on guard duty spot them and call to the others for help. Cullen slashes with his sword, slams his shield into his opponent. The man drops to the ground.

Dex is on the defensive, barely keeping his guard from landing a hit as he scrambles backward. Merrill can’t throw a spell, not without risking hitting Dex. Cullen drives forward and hamstrings the man. He bellows as he collapses. Dex slashes his throat with one blade and stabs him in the chest with the other.

Cullen keeps moving, his shield raised as three men rush them. Merrill throws spells, powered by Dex’s dying slaver, Cullen can feel the hum of blood magic in the air. He blocks an arrow with his shield. Merrill blasts the archer into the wall and Cullen steps to intercept the rogue before he can sneak up on Merrill.

It’s challenging, fighting in tight quarters with one ally more liability than help and a second ally better with large explosions than the precision their current terrain calls for. By the time they reach the main camp, Dex’s blades and forearms are bloody, and Merrill’s eyes glow with power. Cullen prays to anyone who might be listening that this won’t push her over the edge.

There are still four slavers and, of course, their captives. There are ten people, mostly younger but a few adults, their hands bound behind their backs, their ankles tied together so there’s no possibility of escape.

The slavers draw their blades. They eye Cullen, nervous. “Surely, we can work something out.”

“Of course,” Cullen says in a reasonable tone. He doesn’t approach them directly, rather he moves forward from the side. The slavers shuffle away from him and, more importantly, away from the hostages. Cullen keeps his expression non-threatening as he continues his slow shuffle. “What would you like?”

“We almost have a full lot.” The speaker steps forward, eager, as if he believes Cullen is on his side. “You seem capable. We’ll split the profits with you. Fewer guards means more coin to go around.”

Cullen finally is in the position he wanted. He’s between the slavers and the people they kidnapped, and the slavers are trapped between himself and the rest of his party. They realize their predicament at the same time and freeze up. Merrill raises her arms and calls lightning down, striking the slavers where they stand. The slavers fall, but the air remains charged.

Pulling a small blade from his belt, Cullen approaches the victims and frees them, beginning with Inara. She scrambles to her feet and stumbles, a lack of circulation, no doubt, but she smacks Dex’s hands away when he tries to help her. And then she throws her arms around his neck. She turns her face into him, and Cullen gives them their privacy.

Merrill joins Cullen and seemingly doesn’t notice as the victims regard her with fear. She pulls her healing kit out of her bag to show her collection of potions and salves. “Is anyone injured?”

“Do you have food?”

One of the adults hobbles over to the slavers’ provisions. They hand bread and dried fruit out to everyone there. Cullen doesn’t rush them through their meal even though he’s antsy at being trapped in such a small space. They killed quite a few slavers, but what if there are more? What if a rival group senses weakness and moves in?

Merrill treats a few minor injuries, and Cullen insists they all use some salve on where their skin was rubbed raw from their bindings.

Inara finds Cullen as he carefully rubs the balm into the youngest captive’s wrists. She can’t be more than a few years old, she’s unsteady on her feet, because of her age more than her wounds. Cullen looks about the cave. He finds a blanket and he tears it into smaller pieces until he can fashion a sling.

“I can carry her,” Inara says, stepping forward. She must see Cullen preparing to protest, because she rolls her eyes. “You’re going to carry a sword, a shield,  _ and  _ a child? Let me do this.”

_ I’m not useless _ . Cullen hears the words she doesn't say. He fastens the sling to Inara and tucks the child against her chest. The little girl wiggles and, once she’s satisfied she’s held tightly, she tucks her face against Inara and closes her eyes.

“What’s going to happen to us?” It’s one of the kids, a boy with a healing cut on his face and bruises up and down his arms as if he resisted his capture.

Cullen leads their trip out of the cave once they’ve taken everything of value. There wasn’t much money to be found, but he split it evenly amongst the victims. “You can return to where you’re from, we can bring you to the Chantry if you wish to ask for help, you can come to our academy.”

“Academy?”

“It’s a good place,” Dex says, falling in step with the boy. “A bed with warm blankets, three meals a day, and no stupid chants like at the Chantry.” A beat and then. “Not stupid, boring.”

Cullen suspects the correction was for his benefit. Ever since Hawke fought the Arishok, he’s found the words of his youth returned to him. He isn’t quite as religious as Sebastian, but he doesn’t avoid his prayers or chants anymore. More than once, he’s been approached as he kneels at the statue of Andraste, the kids curious as to what he’s doing.

“What’s the catch?”

“You have to sit for lessons. But there are a bunch of different ones, and you can pick what you like. I’m learning how to use daggers. And also numbers. The daggers are more fun.”

Cullen smiles to himself as Dex hits the highlights of Kirkwall’s Academy. The name is a recent change. The Chantry already runs an orphanage, and they didn’t want only children without parents to feel welcome. They have a couple kids who come over during the day, sit through lessons, play, and then return home at night. If they continue at this rate, they’re going to need a bigger mansion.

Chapter 15

Cullen takes Perri with him down the market. Usually it’s Isabela who goes to the market with the kids following her, learning how to haggle, how to determine what food is fresh and what’s better left alone. Sometimes Norah or Orana go, but today it’s Cullen and Perri, who sticks close to his side.

“I like punching bread,” Perri says, skipping ahead and then pausing as she waits for him to catch up. As soon as he reaches her, she skips again.

“I hope you mean kneading the dough and that you aren’t actually punching loaves of bread.”

“Of course I need the dough. How else would I make bread?”

Cullen opens his mouth and then decides it isn’t worth it. “We’ll start your lessons on how to roast meat next. Bread is good, but you need something heartier with it.”

“Can we do the shredded meat? You can put it  _ in  _ the bread. Norah made it for us last week. She called it pulled pork. We made it out of boar. Are you going to hunt the boar for us? Or is Brother Sebastian going to take the older kids on a hunting trip? Dex would like it, I think.”

Perri keeps up a non-stop chatter as they wind their way through the market. Cullen keeps an eye on her even though the patrons are in more danger from her flying elbows as she skips backward now, than she is from them.

But as they wind their way deeper into the market, Cullen notices the friendly faces thin out. The crowd in general thins as if they sense something is wrong. Cullen looks around, but he doesn’t see the source of their discomfort. Until--oh.

Templars.

They notice him notice them and step forward, six of them fanning out until Cullen and Perri are mostly surrounded. Perri pauses as she too realizes something isn’t right. She inches toward Cullen.

Emeric, the de facto leader of the small group steps forward, his hands outstretched. Cullen recognizes it’s meant to put him at ease which means there’s something they need to put him at ease for. Cullen evaluates his options before he unstraps his sword and hands it to Perri. “Could you bring this to Isabela for me? Let her know she’ll need to finish today’s shopping.”

Perri isn’t stupid. She lingers long enough to press a kiss to Cullen’s cheek before she darts off. Cullen stands and offers Emeric a tight smile. “I am unarmed. Where do you mean to take me?”

“A meeting,” Emeric says.

A meeting? Cullen tries to remember if something like this happened the last time around. And then his stomach sinks as he realizes what this must be. “At Thrask’s invitation?”

One of the templar’s sputters a non-answer which means, yes, Cullen is being taken as leverage. He trusts a nearby merchant heard who the meeting is with and will convey the information to Hawke when he comes to investigate. And then, even though it fills him with dread, Cullen steps forward. “I will follow.”

“You’re quite calm about this,” Emeric says, suspicious as they begin walking.

Cullen remembers Emeric as stern but well-meaning, more sympathetic to mages than Cullen was while he lived here. It makes sense he’s aligned with Thrask. He’d grieved when Emeric died last time, and he’s glad at what changes mean he’s alive now. He’ll be less glad if this ends with him being tortured using blood magic.

His fingers itch to curl around the hilt of his sword, but he gave his sword to Perri. It wouldn’t help him here, there’s too many of them, but it still feels wrong to have given it up. It feels as if he’s giving them permission to do whatever they’re planning to do.

They leave the city, neither the templars nor Cullen in a chatty mood. They make their way up to the cliffs, toward some of the lesser-used caves. There’s a small gathering of templars and mages at a clearing outside one of the caves. Cullen’s steps slow as he takes in the assembled group. He’s obviously outnumbered, and even though he knows he has no choice but to move forward, he has difficulty.

At the center of the group is Thrask. At least Cullen correctly guessed what’s going on. The woman next to him, a mage with purple markings on her face, scowls at him as he’s escorted to where she and Thrask stand.

“I want him restrained,” she says.

“He gave up his weapon and came peacefully,” Emeric says.

“Did he?” Thrask looks at Cullen curiously. “Our reports suggested you would put up more of a fight.”

“He also seemed to know where we were taking him,” Emeric adds.

“Your reputation precedes you. Both of you.” Cullen draws on all the diplomacy training he picked up from Josephine and Leliana. “Given what we’ve been doing in the city, I’m surprised you didn’t invite Hawke for an audience, but I can serve as a go-between.”

“You’re mistaken about your purpose,” the woman sneers. She steps closer and Cullen feels the thrum of danger. Not just a mage, a blood mage. He draws on all his strength to hide his fear from her. “You’re here to draw him here. Nothing more.”

Cullen raises his eyebrows as if this is news to him. “You’re threatening the Champion of Kirkwall? Have you not been paying attention these past years? Hawke isn’t someone you want as an enemy.”

“We don’t want him as an enemy,” Thrask says.

Cullen reevaluates his opinion on the templars here. He was hoping to form an alliance with them, but if they’re this stupid… “You kidnapped me. He won’t take kindly to that, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s an act first kind of guy.”

“We left the child unharmed,” one of the guards says.

“Which is the only reason he won’t bring the full force of his wrath on you,” Cullen says. “I still don’t understand why you needed this pretense in the first place. You can’t have missed everything we’ve been doing in the city. Our sympathies are obvious.”

Thrask appears caught off guard by Cullen’s frankness.

“Mute him,” the blood mage says. “Before he poisons your mind with his lies.”

Cullen clasps his hands behind his back. He rocks back on his heels as if he’s preparing to deliver a report. “Hawke himself is a battlemage who walks through Kirkwall in the robes of a mage and with his staff strapped proudly to his back. He saved the city from the Arishok and a Qunari invasion and made sure everyone knows they owed their gratitude to a mage. He’s friends with an apostate who offers himself as healer to those who wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise. Hawke is a mage and a friend to mages. If you approach him in the correct manner, he’ll be sympathetic to your cause.”

Thrask’s expression shifts to suspicion even without the blood mage whispering in his ear. “You seem very well informed of our plans.”

“You act as if we weren’t hoping for something like this to happen.” Cullen allows a brief, smug, smile to flit across his face. “Anders has elevated his practice and position. Hawke recently acted as personal escort to the King of Ferelden on his visit here. He opened the Kirkwall Academy, a place for children to grow and thrive. Three of their teachers are mages. We’re showing mages aren’t as scary as certain people would have us believe.”

“Templars,” Thrask says. “Certain templars, at least. What are his thoughts on the Knight-Commander?”

“I would not speak on his behalf on such a sensitive subject. I will simply advise you that holding a hostage won’t endear him to you, even if he supports your cause.”

“He talks pretty,” the blood mage says. “But he does it only to save his own skin. You can hear his lies, can’t you? Let me bind him, silence him until the one we want arrives.”

“If you use your blood magic on me, I can assure you, Hawke will kill you when he arrives. I doubt he’ll spare your companions. If you truly fear my actions or my influence, I’m sure you have more conventional methods for binding and gagging a prisoner at your disposal. Though, again, I caution you against treating me as a prisoner.”

“Are you so special to Hawke?” the woman sneers.

“I consider myself fortunate to be counted as one of his trusted companions. The loyalty we show him, he pays back tenfold. It’s more than I can say about your leader.”

Thrask’s suspicion returns. “What do you know about the Knight-Commander?”

“Her vision is narrow. She’s lost sight of what the templars were formed to be, a force for protection. Protection goes both ways. How mages are treated in Circles, in the Kirkwall Circle especially, it is a crime.”

“You’re a radical.” Thrask studies him. “Who are you? You seem familiar.”

“I am part of the Champion’s crew. I’m sure you have seen or heard me. You certainly knew me enough to send your men after me.”

“It’s market day. They were sent to take whoever accompanied the children. You movements are predictable.”

“You’re fortunate it was me. Others may have tried to fight.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“We’re trying to decrease the blood shed on Kirkwall’s streets. And when I spotted Emeric amongst the men sent, I wondered if this might be a discussion on our common ground.”

“You’re too poised,” the woman says. “You say you recognized the men who came for you. This is a trap.”

“Grace, you are seeing shades where there’s only shadows,” Thrask says.

“What happened to the girl?”

“He gave her his sword and sent her home,” Emeric says.

“With a message,” one of the others adds. “He told her to tell Isabela to finish the shopping.”

Grace steps closer to Cullen, something dangerous glinting in her gaze. “Is that a code? Should we fear an imminent attack?”

“There’s no hidden message in my words. I was unable to do today’s shopping which means someone else will need to complete it. We have many mouths to feed at our Academy. But yes, it was also a warning. Perri returning alone, returning with my sword, it will be strange. Someone will investigate what happened and when they arrive in the market to find out where I went, I imagine one of the merchants will tell them I left for a meeting with Thrask.”

Thrask glowers at his men. “You spoke my name aloud? This was supposed to be  _ discrete _ .”

“What’s next in your plan? Speak all or I will force the truth from you.” Grace draws a blade from her belt. She tilts it and the sun catches the enchantments carved into it. A blood mage’s knife. This time, Cullen can’t hide his reaction, and Grace’s lips curve in a smile. “You know what this is. Have you felt one pierce your skin before? Do you know what it’s like to bleed for a purpose?”

“If you even scratch him with that, I will show you what it means to suffer.”

Relief washes through him at the sound of Hawke’s voice. Cullen turns to see Sebastian on the high ground next to Varric, both longbow and crossbow loaded and ready to fire. Merrill and Anders stand on their other sides, staff in hand.

Fenris and Hawke approach the group. Cullen steps backward and, when no one stops him, backs up until he joins his friends. Fenris hands him his sword and his shield.

“You brought everyone,” Cullen says, surprised.

“Not quite everyone, someone needs to mind the children,” Fenris answers. “But when Perri said the bad men took you, we did not take any chances.”

“The bad men?” Thrask protests. “We’re  _ templars _ !”

“And I’m a mage,” Hawke says. “I don’t particularly like templars. What about you Anders? Merrill? Do templars give you warm fuzzies?”

“No,” Anders answers, something hard, something  _ more  _ in his voice as if Justice is close to the surface.

“I do not find templars sexually appealing,” Merrill answers.

Hawke actually facepalms. Thrask’s face goes through a series of expressions, each funnier than the last; disbelief, wounded pride, settling on confusion.

“She’s young,” Hawke explains. “What’s your excuse?”

“We wanted an audience with you,” Thrask says.

“ _ We _ ?” Grace scoffs. She draws her knife across Thrask’s throat.

He gasps then gurgles as blood bubbles up, enough for a spell, even as the wound closes beneath it. Grace calls her power to her and raises shades from the sand.

“Just once!” Hawke shouts.

“Always blood mages,” Fenris mutters.

Fenris charges forward, at Grace as the others battle her shades. Cullen grabs Thrask and drags him away from the fight. If the cut wasn’t deep, he should survive. Cullen fumbles in his belt for his healing supplies. He presses a potion into Thrask’s hand as a shade notices them. Cullen raises his shield and his sword and fights the demon off.

He slams his shield into the shade, but it doesn’t move the way something flesh and blood does. It oozes and reaches around Cullen’s shield, attempting to grab him. A blast of fire hits the thing in its back. It hisses and Cullen drives his sword through it. He rips his blade up, cutting through heart and head. The shade melts into the ground, leaving its demon stain on the sand.

He returns to Thrask’s side and uncorks the potion. He brings it to the man’s lips.

“You aren’t dying here,” Cullen tells him. “Drink.”

Thrask winces as he swallows, no doubt because of the cut across his throat. If they had more time, Cullen would use the salve first, but he doesn’t have time. He coaxes Thrask into a second sip before he has to fend off another shade.

They defeat the shades, and Hawke holds his staff out as he stares down the rest of the mages and templars. “Is this a truce?” he asks.

“It was supposed to be a meeting of the minds,” Cullen answers. Finally, with time on his side, he wipes the blood from Thrask’s neck. He applies the salve and urges the man to drink the rest of the potion.

“I didn’t realize Grace’s motivations were different than mine.” Thrask’s voice is hoarse but functional. “I apologize.”

“We are not like her,” a different mage says stepping forward. “Please, we mean you no harm.”

“I--”

“What’s going on here?”

Cullen winces as his younger self strides forward, full of purpose, Samson on his heels. Cullen doesn’t expect his reaction, the way all his muscles tense, the way he springs to his feet, sword in hand, ready to cut down the man. He pauses, halfway to the former templar. His eyes are bloodshot but it isn’t the red of a lyrium infected man. It’s quite the opposite. His face is gaunt, dark circles under his eyes, his body feeling the effects of being without its favorite drug.

“Cullen?” Hawke asks.

Thankfully, it’s his younger self who answers. “I heard rumors of a meeting between mages and templars. One the Knight-Commander wouldn’t be pleased about.”

Cullen steps forward before anyone can open their mouths and tell the truth. “You heard correctly. But you know rumors, there’s more lie than truth to them. There are mages here, victims of a blood mage’s plot to lure the Champion of Kirkwall away from his city and his friends and kill him. Thrask, his men, and the Champion’s friends were able to subvert this plot.”

Hawke waves as if to say  _ here and alive _ .

“What?” Younger Cullen asks weakly.

Cullen steps back to help Thrask to his feet. “Thrask was a victim of blood magic. It’s a small mercy that Grace used a blood knife or he may have bled out.”

“I’m grateful for his assistance,” Hawke says, picking up on the story Cullen’s weaving. “So grateful, I’d like to invite him and his men to my place for dinner. Once you’re feeling better, of course. We can serve pulled pork. I hear Sebastian’s going on a hunting trip so Perri can learn how to make it.”

“She’s very excited to learn,” Cullen says.

Younger Cullen and Thrask exchange a look, both of them equally confused. But Thrask isn’t stupid. He smiles tightly. “I thank you for your invitation. I would be honored to dine in your home. At the moment, I would be grateful to return to my quarters.”

Younger Cullen surges forward. “Of course. Let me assist you. I’ll tell the Knight-Commander to leave you be until you’ve recovered. Was it only the one blood mage?”

“We didn’t know what she planned,” one the mages says. “We swear. Please show mercy.”

“I’m glad none of you were harmed,” Younger Cullen says, sincerely. “It is our duty to protect you even as we watch over you. That we have failed is something I regret.”

The templars and mages make their way back to Kirkwall, leaving Hawke’s companions and Samson in the clearing. Samson squints at Cullen. “You seem familiar.”

“It must be the lyrium addling your mind,” Cullen says. “Or, the lack of it, I suppose.”

Samson, rather than growing offended, smiles, something too-knowing in his eyes. “Spoken like someone who suffers the same affliction. I saw you fight. You were once a templar. Tell me, did they toss you out for a legitimate reason or a made up one? I suppose it doesn’t matter. Though, you don’t look as bad as I feel. A recent demotion?”

“I’m off lyrium completely,” Cullen tells him.

“Very recent,” Samson says. “Or you’d be dead.”

Cullen laughs even though it isn’t funny. “There are ways to cope.”

“Well, I have to return to the city. I have money to beg for.” Samson offers a bastardized solute and saunters off.

“Who was that?” Hawke asks.

“Someone from my past. And my future. A cautionary tale, you could say.”

“You won’t end up like him.”

“I know.” Cullen will turn his blade on himself before he becomes Samson.

#

They meet with Thrask and Emeric a week after the incident with Grace. The men arrive in their templar robes but without the full armor. Cullen isn’t sure if its an attempt at diplomacy or practicality, but he relaxes minutely at the sign they aren’t here for a fight.

As promised, they serve pulled pork over fresh-baked bread and roasted potatoes with a side of green beans. The beans and potatoes are from their garden, the bread and pork were cooked by Perri with Cullen’s help. Call him sentimental, but he believes food tastes better when it’s grown with care and cooked by his own hand.

“This is good,” Emeric says, tucking in. “My compliments to your cook.”

“The girl you graciously spared in the market,” Cullen says.

Emeric clears his throat. “Ah. Yes. Well.”

Hawke waves away the awkwardness. “Given that no one I care about was injured, I’m willing to look over the intimidation and kidnapping. Let’s talk about where our interests align and what we plan to do about it.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen the notices about bodies being dumped in the harbor,” Thrask says. “Knight-Commander Meredith has been increasing the public’s fear of mages. I understand you’re doing your best to counter her influence, but her roots sink deeper than yours. She is turning public perception even more against mages. It could become a volatile situation.”

“Is she sympathetic to Otto Alrik?” Hawke asks. “We discovered his plan to turn every mage Tranquil and put a stop to it, but if she wants to pick up where he left off…”

“It’s more complicated than that. Meredith,” Thrask pauses as he considers his words. “She believes in what she’s doing. Alrik was cruel and the worst kind of scum. Meredith thinks she, and the templars, are the only thing standing between Kirkwall and a ticking gaatlok bomb. It isn’t a question of if the mages will revolt but when. And once you determine a group of people are dangerous beyond redemption…”

“It becomes easy to see why they should be destroyed.”

“She’s prepared to invoke the Right of Annulment,” Thrask says.

Cullen doesn’t gasp, because he knew this was her plan. Still, it brings back unpleasant memories, the chaos when she invoked it, the bloodshed. So much blood. He led an army and saw less blood than he did on that one evening in Kirkwall.

“She plans to execute all the mages?” Hawke shakes his head. “Unacceptable.”

“We are in agreement, then. Tensions continue to strain between the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter. Meredith won’t act without reason, but she’s doing nothing to prevent an inciting action. The building fear, the curtailed rights of the mages, she’s leading them toward something this city will never recover from.”

Hawke doesn’t look at Cullen or Anders, instead, keeping his gaze focused on Thrask. “What can we do?”

“With enough templar support, we could declare Meredith unfit for leadership and replace her. However, it would be quite chaotic. If we could be certain we had your support for such action...it would be easier.”

“We want Meredith gone,” Hawke says. “But there are things we want in return. Better conditions for the mages, for starters. They’re kept like prisoners instead of people.”

“We can make changes,” Thrask says.

Emeric clears his throat and Thrask ducks his head, as if he’s offered more than he can give.

“We can persuade the Viscount to see our side,” Cullen says. “The Champion has pull with him. And Brother Sebastian has been speaking with Grand Cleric Elthina. We could have the support of the Grand Cleric even if we don’t secure the full support of the Chantry.”

Thrask looks surprised. “You’ve been cultivating allies?”

“I do more than sit around and look ruggedly handsome,” Hawke says. “We know our plans may not be popular which means we need to be united when we implement them. If we overthrow Meredith and the templars are on our side, that goes a long way. We already have the city guard thanks to Aveline.”

“We should talk more about our plans,” Thrask says. “Make sure we agree on the path forward before we knock over the first domino.”

“And clearly identify our enemies as well as our allies,” Emeric adds. “We do have a formidable team on our side, but it will do us no favors to grow overconfident. There will be dissent within the Order. And Meredith will not go quietly. The templar who discovered us, Knight-Captain Cullen, he doubts our story. He hasn’t presented it to the Knight-Commander, publicly at least, but he can’t be trusted.”

Cullen keeps his face impassive even as more than one of his companions look his way. “If you could identify your templars as sympathetic, neutral, or antagonistic, it would be helpful. We can ask Aveline to do the same with the guard.”

“I’d say Cullen is more neutral than antagonistic,” Thrask says. “He’s eager to please, but he’s a good lad. If we give him a better alternative to Meredith, he’ll understand.”

“You’ve heard the rumors,” Emeric says. “And I know you’ve seen him bathe. He has no love for mages.”

Cullen clears his throat.

“Apologies,” Thrask says. “Such gossip is unbecoming. We will prepare a list for you. We will also discuss our main aims for this collaboration. I hope you do as well, and we can discuss at our next meeting.”

“I’ll bring the drink, you bring the work, it’ll be a party.” Hawke grins. “But for now, let’s finish eating.”

#

After their guests leave, Hawke coaxes Cullen to bed. Fenris closes the door behind them and smiles as he turns the lock.

“We’re in the Champion’s mansion. No one’s going to break in,” Cullen says.

“Isabela might. She keeps asking to watch.”

“A locked door isn’t going to stop her.”

Hawke pushes Cullen down on the bed and Cullen goes easily, his legs sprawling open. Hawke kneels between them. “So, do we need to talk about possibly being on the opposite side of your younger self?”

“Does the world really need two of me?” Cullen asks.

“Quit deflecting,” Fenris says. He joins them in bed, propped up on one elbow to watch them.

“I am...misguided at this time. Meredith is strong-willed and as the Knight-Commander, she made an easy, uncomplicated person to follow. If that changes, my opinion might as well. It all depends on how she reacts to a coup. Last time, open warfare broke out when Hawke sided with the mages. Her red lyrium drove her mad. I don’t know if she has it yet. But I don’t think she needs the lyrium to drive her down a path she can’t come back from. She has conviction. Too much of it.”

“We could smuggle him out,” Fenris offers. “Keep him elsewhere until this is resolved.”

Cullen shakes his head. “He needs to make his choice. I can only pray he makes the right one.”

“Precedent shows he will,” Hawke says. He glances at Fenris. “Enough serious talk? Can we make out now?”

Fenris makes a  _ go on _ motion with his free hand.

Hawke grins down at Cullen. “Do you want to put a show on for our elf? I bet ten minutes before he can’t hold himself back and joins in.”

“What are we betting?” Cullen asks.

Hawke considers this for a moment. “Who’s on top?”

“Easy.” Cullen taps Hawke’s hip. “You’re already there. Pick something else.”

Hawke squawks, outraged, and turns to Fenris for help. Fenris smiles, a smug quirk of his lips. “I’m just here to watch, remember?”

“For another nine and a half minutes,” Hawke says.

Fenris covers a yawn with his hand and Hawke ducks his head with a growl.

Chapter 16

Knight-Commander Meredith uses the attack on Thrask as an excuse to search the The Gallows for any hint of rebellious activity. The Viscount calls the Knight-Commander, Grand Cleric Elthina, First Enchanter Orsino, Guard-Captain Aveline, and the Champion of Kirkwall to his home to discuss the drastic action and whether it’s necessary.

While they’re all occupied, Thrask and Emeric speak to their fellow templars, pitch the idea that Meredith isn’t fit for her position. They seem discouraged when there isn’t immediate support for an uprising, but Cullen wasn’t expecting there to be. Meredith might be...overzealous, but for many it’s a good quality. They won’t abandon her until she crosses the line.

“You aren’t worried?” Thrask demands after the meeting produces a solution no one likes; Meredith is to conduct her search with Orsino and Hawke with her to make sure she truthfully reports her findings. “Do you know how many mages we have? The chances are high at least one of them is doing something they shouldn’t be. And Mettin tattled to Meredith about our meeting. She’s quietly seething about the threat to her authority.”

“Good,” Fenris says. “She feels threatened by her own people, she feels belittled by the Viscount. She’ll want to make a statement, a strong one. When she finds evidence of wrongdoing, because you’re correct, there will be  _ something _ , she will overreact. Which is your cue to step in and suggest a change in leadership.”

“I don’t like this,” Emeric says. “It feels as though we’re tempting the Maker, defying his plan. We’re setting Meredith up to fail. Whatever happens, it will be our fault.”

“We’re going to build a better Kirkwall,” Thrask says. “One where mages are safe. Where parents don’t kill their children out of fear or have to give them up.”

Hawke raises his drink. “Here, here.”

Fenris flexes his hands as if thinking of what happens when mages are  _ too  _ comfortable, the way they are in Tevinter. He and Cullen have spoken on this at length. The templars will continue to exist, to prevent mages from becoming a ruling class as they are in Tevinter. The goal is to shift them away from being an oppressive force. Cullen doesn’t know if they’ll succeed, and it’s terrifying, but he knows they have to at least try.

#

Hawke chooses Cullen to accompany him to The Gallows. Cullen isn’t entirely sure he’s the correct choice, he’s a little afraid Meredith will make the connection, but he can’t deny Hawke when the man says, “You’re the one I want at my side if things with mages go south”, so Cullen puts on his armor, gathers his shield and sword, and accompanies the Champion of Kirkwall to the Circle.

They meet Meredith, Thrask, and Mettin at the entrance where Orsino and Elthina wait for them. Hawke claps his hands together. “Let’s get this party started.”

Meredith’s gaze flicks to the staff strapped to Hawke’s back. “I hope you remember where your loyalties lie, Champion.”

“The Viscount wouldn’t have sent me if he didn’t trust me to make the right choice.” Hawke smiles, bright and brilliant, hiding a thousand things behind its shine. He gestures for her to go ahead of him.

“It is my mages,” Orsino begins, but Meredith sweeps past him, leaving him to follow after her.

“Patience and understanding,” Elthina counsels. “The Maker will guide our way.”

Hawke and Cullen exchange a glance.  _ Someone  _ will be guiding their way.

Meredith enters the first mage quarters, and the four women exclaim in surprise and then fear when the realize who’s here. “Knight-Commander,” one of them greets, bowing her head in respect.

“First Enchanter!” another one of them appeals to Orsino for help. “What is happening?”

“A surprise inspection,” Meredith answers. She gestures for Mettin to begin. The man opens drawers and overturns bedding despite the protests from the mages and the rest of the party.

“Please, we’ve done nothing wrong.”

“And yet blood magic continues to grow in this city. I will find its source and root it out.” Meredith opens the writing desk and rustles through the letters there. She catches one of the mage’s glance toward the bookcase. She picks up books and shakes them until loose papers fall from one.

“No!” The mage rushes forward, but Mettin holds her back.

Meredith picks up the papers. She scoffs. “Love letters. Poorly written too. You don’t name your mysterious lover. Who is he? And who helped you smuggle these out?”

The mage shakes her head. “They aren’t real. A flight of fancy, nothing more. I swear.”

“You swear?” Meredith steps forward. “And why should I believe the word of a  _ mage _ ?”

“Knight-Commander!” Elthina scolds. “You have no right to go through their private things.”

“I have every right. I am operating with the Viscount’s approval to conduct a full search of the premises. Resistance will be seen as guilt.” She stares the Grand Cleric down, daring her to protest.

The Grand Cleric turns to Hawke for backup. Meredith bristles, but she turns her steely glare on Hawke.

“I’m here to make sure things don’t get out of hand,” Hawke says.

The Grand Cleric gestures to the mess of the room and the huddled, frightened mages. “This isn’t out of hand?”

Hawke places a palm flat against his chest. “I’m also a mage. I would hate to end up on the wrong side of the Knight-Commander’s temper.”

“Temper?” Meredith snaps. “Your kind are all a danger, waiting to strike when we are caught unsuspecting, but I am vigilant. I will protect this city.”

Cullen watches the Knight-Commander unspool before his very eyes. He takes a steadying breath and sends up a prayer. If Andraste watches over them today, he prays she keeps them safe.

“All mages, report!” Meredith bellows, her voice carrying through The Gallows.

There’s an immediate reaction as mages pour out of their rooms, gathered outside in their robes, murmured voices as they discuss what might be happening. Meredith strides to the center, until they can all see here.

“I am here at the request of the Viscount. There is disorder in our city, and it will not be tolerated. You will stand outside your rooms, quiet and peaceful as we search your rooms. Anyone found violating the rules will be punished accordingly.”

Cullen looks around, wondering if they recognize their numbers advantage. Will they rise up and rebel in mass? No, he watches as they meekly cluster together and watch as Meredith and Mettin stride into the next room. Their spirit has been broken.

The two templars toss this room as well as the Grand Cleric wrings her hands and the First Enchanter sputters ineffectively. Cullen’s gaze sweeps through the mages again. Some huddle even more as they realize no one will step up and help them. He sees a few with steel in their spine and nudges Hawke so they can keep an eye on them. He doesn’t want this to end with someone turning abomination.

“More letters!” Meredith storms out of the fourth room, waving papers in her hands. She glowers at the four men who share it. “Which one of you do these belong to?”

“Writing letters is not a crime,” Hawke says.

“It is in the Circle,” Meredith says. “It is if they are corrupting my templars to act as couriers. It is if they are dreaming of escape.” She thrusts the papers toward Hawke. “ _ All my thoughts are consumed of you, when I might next receive word from you. I can still remember the sound of your voice, and I hear your letters as if you are speaking them to me. One day, I’ll see you again. I know it. _ Planning an escape!”

“Planning a tryst,” Hawke says.

“Also illegal.”

Hawke leans on his staff, looking unassuming. “Let me get this straight, mages aren’t allowed to leave The Gallows, their visitors are strictly monitored, they aren’t allowed to write letters, they aren’t allowed to have relationships, what are they supposed to be doing here?”

“Meditating and preparing to serve us if they are ever needed.”

“Sounds shitty,” Hawke says. “I’m glad I went the apostate route.”

Meredith’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “ _ You _ \--”

“That isn’t the purpose of the Circles,” Cullen interrupts before Hawke gives the Knight-Commander a stroke. “They’re supposed to be a safe place for mages, away from the dangers and temptations which could draw demons to them. They aren’t supposed to be prisons or pens. There should be space and freedom so they can grow and love and see why life is worth living.”

“Who are you?” Meredith sneers.

“He’s right,” Thrask agrees. “If our role as templars is protect mages, we should be cultivating an environment where they don’t feel threatened or feel as if blood magic is their only out. Protecting them doesn’t mean a reign of terror.”

“What is this?” Meredith demands. She turns to Hawke. “What have you done?”

“I’m doing what the Viscount said.”

“You are undermining my authority. I warned him you were sympathetic to the mages. Are you the one encouraging their rebellion? I’ve heard about your Academy. Flaunting apostates as if you’re untouchable. You may be the Champion, but I am Knight-Commander. You best remember it.”

“I have an excellent memory,” Hawke drawls.

Meredith’s lip curls and Cullen recognizes the glint in here eye even though there’s no ring of red, the influence of the lyrium. “Then I will teach you a lesson, and you will make sure to remember it.” She reaches her hand out, and Hawke gasps and falters, almost falling to his knees. “Do you feel that? I hold your magic in my hand,  _ mage _ .” Meredith steps forward. “I can make you powerless. Do you know what that means?”

“Enough,” Cullen orders. “You have no right to harm the Champion.”

“He should be in the Circle where we can monitor him.”

Cullen doesn’t like the threat in her words or how Hawke’s knees tremble as he straightens again. “Hawke is not yours. And if you continue with these petty displays, the Circle mages won’t be either.”

Meredith tilts her head as if Cullen is a particularly amusing nug. “Are you threatening me? I am--”

“The Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, yeah.” Cullen almost winces at his irreverence even though he fought against Meredith the last time. “But you aren’t untouchable.”

She snaps her fingers and she and Mettin enter the next quarters.

“What are you doing?” Thrask hisses.

“Making sure when she snaps, her focus is on me,” Hawke answers. “I know I won’t turn abomination. But the others? They may not realize they have another option.”

“I hope you’re ready for this,” Thrask mutters.

The First Enchanter drifts over. “Perhaps you could stop antagonizing her. This is bad enough as it is. She won’t find anything, my mages are good, obedient, but the disruption is bad for them.”

“I knew it!” Meredith emerges from the room, waving a piece of paper as if it’s declaration of war. “ _ Dearest Emelia, if you can slip past the guards and escape the Circle, you will find acceptance elsewhere in Kirkwall. There is a place here where mages are accepted. They play with children, teach them their craft. This is the life you deserve, my daughter. I pray Andraste grants you escape. _ You are harboring escaped mages! How do you answer these charges,  _ Champion? _ ”

“I do not harbor escaped mages,” Hawke answers, calm for someone being set up. “There are three mages at the Academy, myself, Anders, and Merrill, we’ve made no secret of any of our teachings.”

“And hiding amongst the filth you bring in off the street? How many more there? Emelia!” Meredith whirls on the mages. “Step forward, girl, and I will give you the option of being made Tranquil rather than death.”

No one moves. Cullen’s not even sure they breathe.

Meredith’s fingers crumple the letter. “If you will not step forward, your entire pod will be treated as if they’re the errant mage.”

Someone pushes a young girl forward. She stutters as tears fill her eyes. She throws herself at Merrill’s feet. “I didn’t write that letter, I swear. My mother is dead! She died trying to protect me from slavers.”

“Am I supposed to pity you? No matter. You will be brought to the templars for questioning. We will determine whether the Champion has been inciting rebellion.”

“That is a serious charge,” First Enchanter Orsino says. “You should not throw it around lightly.”

“I do not.” Meredith whirls on him now, frantic as she sees danger coming at her from all sides. “You are remarkably calm, First Enchanter. Did you know of this escape plan? Are you complicit in the Champion’s crimes?”

“Knight-Commander!” Thrask protests.

Meredith reaches her hand out. Hawke groans as she twists her wrist, sending him to his knees. His staff clatters as it hits the ground and rolls out of his reach. Cullen recognizes a Silencing when he sees it. Sweat beads along Hawke’s hairline. His eyes are wild, panicked as his greatest strength is stripped from him.

Cullen has seen Hawke outmatched, has seen him pinned against a wall, has seen him face the Arishok with uneven odds. He’s never seen him afraid.

Cullen throws his own hand out, finding Meredith’s magic and shoving it back. She stumbles before her gaze snaps to him. “What?”

Cullen steps in front of Hawke, a symbolic gesture, but one he feels better for making. “He is not yours. Mettin, Thrask, escort your Knight-Commander to the templar barracks. She is done here.”

“Wait a minute,” Mettin begins.

“Grand Cleric, please inform the Viscount of the threat the Knight-Commander has made, and executed, against the Champion of Kirkwall. He will listen to your unbiased opinion.”

“Right away.” The Grand Cleric gathers her skirts and hurries out, no doubt eager to get away before this erupts into violence.

Meredith pushes back against Cullen, stronger than he is with the lyrium backing her power. Hawke groans as he’s once again Silenced.

“Leave,” Cullen orders. “Or fight me in a fair battle.”

“You can’t--” Mettin looks around for someone to protest, but he’s surrounded by mages and mage-sympathizers. He stares at the Grand Cleric’s retreating form. “I’ll tell the Viscount.”

Meredith turns her hand again and Hawke cries out, sharp and high-pitched.

“He won’t turn,” Cullen says. “You do understand you’re the ones who drive mages to blood magic and demons, don’t you? You cut off all their sources of power and then you starve them, physically and intellectually. What you provide for them can barely be called a life. And the things your templars do to them…” He swallows back the bile in his throat. “It’s no wonder they wish for more power. It’s no wonder desire demons have such sway over them. Circles have become a breeding ground for blood magic and abominations. You are cultivating the very things you seek to stamp out.”

“He’s twisted you. Controlled you.”

Cullen wants to laugh but it isn’t funny. “That was my lecture. But do you want to know why he won’t turn? Because he has friends. He isn’t alone.” Cullen draws his sword. “Release him or I will force you to.”

Meredith’s lips curve up in a smile. “That is a threat from one of the Champion’s thralls. Mettin, Thrask, with me. We will gather our brothers and sisters, and we will return to destroy this corruption.” She  _ yanks _ and Hawke’s answering cry is agonizing.

Cullen would’ve leapt at the Knight-Commander, but Thrask puts himself between her and Cullen’s blade. Meredith notices and seems pleased as they sweep out of the Gallows.

As soon as they’re gone, Cullen spins to Hawke. The man topples sideways onto the stone ground. “I need a lyrium potion! Quickly!” He checks Hawke’s pulse. It beats steadily, if weakly. “You’re going to be okay.”

“I feel...gutted.”

“She sucked your magic out of you.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah.” Cullen takes the potion Emelia offers him. He takes a deep breath and holds it before he uncorks the potion and helps Hawke drink it.

As soon as Hawke is sitting up, leaning against Cullen, but upright, Orsino rushes forward. “What were you thinking? She’s going to storm up here with the entire Templar Order! If we’re lucky she’ll make us all Tranquil.”

“Hey!” Hawke snaps. “Quit stoking fear unless you want to be fighting demons.” With Cullen’s help, Hawke makes it to his feet. “I know I don’t strike the most impressive figure right now, but Meredith will not harm you. We won’t let her.”

“The two of you?” Orino’s voice rises high, panicked.

“More than two.” Varric shows up with the rest of the crew.

Aveline and a large portion of her guard arrive as well. “Donnic is investigating reports of unrest at the templar barracks. There are rumors Knight-Captain Cullen initiated a rite to replace Knight-Commander Meredith.”

“Cullen?” Cullen demands before he can stop himself.

“Apparently, anyone can learn,” Anders says. He flashes Cullen a small, quiet smile, before he strides forward. “Is anyone hurt?”

“I don’t--” Orsino looks around. “What’s happening?”

“We’re doing what the templars should’ve been doing all this time,” Cullen says. “We’re protecting the mages. Aveline, I want your guards as the first line of defense. Sebastian and Varric, take the high ground. Anders and Merrill, I want you to take anyone who feels comfortable fighting and create a backline of mages. First Enchanter, will you fight alongside your mages if it comes to it or will you protect those who need some distance?”

“I--” the First Enchanter draws himself to his full height. “I will protect my mages. Emelia, take those who don’t wish to fight to the healing rooms. Pray and for the love of the Maker,  _ stay calm _ .”

Cullen places a hand on Hawke’s arm. His skin is still clammy. “Would you like to go with them?”

“I feel great,” he says, his voice still hoarse.

“Stand with Anders. Fenris and I are going to join Aveline’s guard.”

They’re all in position, staring down the closed gates, waiting to see who will approach first. To Cullen’s relief, it’s the Viscount, along with the Grand Cleric.

“Raise the gate,” Hawke orders.

The two people and their small guard enter and the gate closes behind them. The Viscount looks over the assembled army. “This is an interesting reaction.”

“Once, this city promised to protect its mages,” Cullen says. “We are honoring that promise. The Knight-Commander threatened the Champion.”

Emeric sprints to the gate, out of breath as he leans against the wrought iron. “Meredith has been defeated. Knight-Commander Thrask now leads the templars. He requests an audience with the Viscount and the First Enchanter to discuss how to repair the relationship between the mages and templars.”

“What do you mean by defeated?” Hawke asks. “And why aren’t I invited?”

“You aren’t a diplomat.” Emeric grins. It fades after a moment. “She did not take her new assignment gracefully. I regret to inform the Viscount that one of the citizens of his city is dead. Along with some of those most loyal to her. It is unfortunate, but with the poison leeched from our Order, we will grow strong again.”

“Well.” The Viscount looks to the templar on one side of the locked gate and the small army on the other. “I suppose my schedule is free. Hawke, you look like you need a good night’s sleep.”

“Seriously?” Hawke protests. “I’m important too!”

He sways into Anders, and the Viscount’s gaze turns pitying for a moment. “Grand Cleric, if you would accompany me? I believe we could use the grace and patience of Andraste at this meeting.”

Cullen watches as the gate raises. The Grand Cleric, The First Enchanter, and the Viscount leave the Gallows together and for the first time since Cullen landed here, he feels a glimmer of hope.

Chapter 17

“You know, we peacefully overthrow the Knight-Commander, we start changing Kirkwall for the better and what happens? Death threats.” Hawke kicks a few loose rocks up the path as they make their way toward the Vinmark Mountains. “I guess it’s a good thing. I’d hate to wake up one day and not recognize my own city.”

The Carta threats were irritating at first and, as they continued, grew more irritating. Hawke’s life was never in danger and all his companions knew to keep one eye open even if calmer days were becoming more and more common in Kirkwall. But when little Perri came up to Hawke with a serious expression as she handed him a note with one hand and held out her palm with the other, clearly expecting to be paid for her messenger duties…

Cullen gave her coin as Hawke swore over the message. The Carta made it clear, if Hawke wouldn’t come and meet them for a fair fight, they would make the fight less fair.

It’s Hawke, Fenris, Cullen, Varric, and Anders, hiking out to the middle of nowhere to figure out what it is the Carta want. True, better times mean there’s less of a place for murderous, cheating smugglers, but they aren’t too old for career changes.

The Viscount, dedicated to change, sat down with the various leaders of city, whether they be religious, secular, or Hawke. The Viscount, Knight-Commander Thrask, First Enchanter Orsino, Guard-Captain Aveline, Grand Cleric Elthina, and The Champion of Kirkwall became an impressive council. While the Viscount officially dispensed their decisions, it was understood they were endorsed by the full council. Or...most of the council, anyway.

“Maybe we’ll miss the Chantry fun,” Hawke says. He kicks another few pebbles. They skitter over the side of the bridge. “The Viscount said we’ve been causing some waves.”

“By treating mages with compassion?” Anders slaps a hand to his chest. “It is revolutionary in these parts.”

Their first act as the Council of Kirkwall was to enforce tax collection and dispense the funds to benefit the city rather than the nobles. There was some grumbling from the upper crust as they saw their coin turned into construction projects in Lowtown and the alienage, but when Hawke loudly handed his share of taxes to the seneschal, there was less room for the nobles to wiggle out of theirs.

Cullen even handed the children coins to hand over to pay taxes for the Academy. Perri tried to haggle with the seneschal which would’ve worked if Cullen hadn’t intervened. It helped when they took a field trip to Lowtown to see the housing project.

“So everyone will have a home?” Perri asked, hanging around Cullen’s shoulders even though she was getting to be too big to climb all over him. “Like you gave us?”

“Everyone should have a warm, safe place to sleep,” Cullen said.

“Why don’t you build it instead?”

“I don’t have enough money.”

“So you take other people’s? Isn’t that stealing?”

And that’s how Cullen ended up sitting in the middle of Lowtown with a gaggle of orphans to explain taxes and societal obligation.

It will take years before Kirkwall transforms into a new, thriving city, but the groundwork is being laid. They’re even building a large healing clinic in Lowtown. Anders was invited to the planning meeting for it, and he argued for an extensive rooftop garden in addition to sick rooms and indoor plumbing.

Cullen’s seen the sketches. It’s going to be a beautiful building. There’s even a small school planned so Anders can take on apprentices and trainees. With a full complement of healers, he won’t run himself ragged trying to help everyone. Merrill’s already trying to convince him to let her live in the clinic with him as his favorite apprentice.

“I can’t have favorites,” Anders argued.

“But I’m your only one. Which means I am your favorite.”

“Also my least favorite,” Anders muttered.

“What Chantry fun?” Fenris asks.

“We’re moving too fast for Grand Cleric Elthina.” Hawke grins a little, but it slips away. “The Divine has ordered her best to pay a visit to our city. Officially, it’s to study what we’re doing so they can implement it throughout the rest of the Free Marches and Ferelden. Unofficially, they’re going to determine if we’re too radical.”

They all know what happens if the Chantry decides someone, or someones, are out of line.

“Did they say who they’re sending?” Anders asks.

“Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast,” Varric says.

“The Right Hand of the Divine?” Anders asks. He whistles. “Yeah, we’re fucked.”

Cullen comes to a full stop, sudden enough for Varric to walk into him. The dwarf grumbles and pushes Cullen forward. “You’re wearing too much armor for us to cuddle.”

“Sorry.” Cullen forces his feet to move again. Cassandra? After all this time? Or, before all this time? His stomach twists up tightly. He knows more than anyone else here they’re in for a rough ride if Cassandra is heading up this...inquisition. She’s stubborn and devoted to her beliefs. While she can persuaded, she won’t trust any of them.

Are they too radical? The changes they’re making, homes for mages without prison bars on them, regular contact with non-mages, they don’t seem like enough to Cullen, and glacial progress to Anders but for the rest of Thedas?

“It gets better,” Varric says. “The Left Hand is coming too.”

“Leliana?” Cullen asks.

“I forgot you had history with her,” Varric says.

“Isabela has history with her. I have...future with her. Or did.” Cullen rubs his temples as a headache comes on. “She’s brilliant and she’s sneaky. She probably knows more about Kirkwall than Varric.”

Varric, predictably, scoffs. But when Cullen doesn’t laugh along, he raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“She and Cassandra are a formidable pair.”

“You know both of them?”

Cullen allows himself a brief smile. “You knew Cassandra pretty well. Last time she came to Kirkwall, she shoved you into a chair in Hawke’s mansion and interrogated you. Thoroughly.”

“Like…” Varric waggles his eyebrows.

Cullen laughs. “I don’t think you’re her type. There was some speculation it was Hawke who set the mages and templars against each other. He had a reputation for chaos, everyone knew he was a mage, and he made himself scarce afterward.”

“Really?” Hawke asks. He sounds disappointed with himself for leaving.

Cullen doesn’t explain the Anders situation or how virtually everyone left, except Varric who stuck around long enough to meet Cassandra and get dragged into the Inquisition. “Two things. You thought being in Kirkwall would bring more trouble to it. And then something else. I learned later you went to hang out with some Grey Wardens. Never learned why.”

“I became a warden? That was a terrible choice. No offense, Anders.”

“I left them,” Anders points out.

Their discussion is put on hold as they encounter their first Carta dwarves.

“You came,” the one on the left intones. His voice is too deep, something off about it. “You are the Hawke. You are the one whose blood we need.”

“The Master must be freed,” the one on the far right says.

“Anyone else have a bad feeling about this?” Hawke asks.

“I suggest we make the bad feeling go away,” Fenris says. He waits for Hawke’s nod and then charges in. Cullen follows behind him, shield raised and sword ready.

The dwarves don’t put up much of a fight. Hawke inspects their bodies but there are no clues as to why they wanted Hawke here. “Do we try to solve the mystery? They’ll keep sending people until we do.”

“Just don’t prick your finger on anything,” Varric says. He steps over the spill of blood as if he’s worried about his boots.

Fenris stalks forward, taking point, Hawke and Varric behind him. Anders and Cullen give them some place as they bring up the rear.

“Thank you for not telling Hawke about what my other self did,” Anders says quietly.

“You thought you didn’t have any other choice.” Forgiveness comes easier to Cullen than it has in the past. Maybe, it’s because he can see hoping dawning for the first time in far too long. “I was in the same place once, but I survived. I learned from my mistakes. You didn’t have the same opportunity.”

Cullen makes routine visits to the new mage homes. He brings the kids with him, not all of them at once, but the ones who want to go with him. Perri likes to hand out the bread she bakes in the morning. Britches likes to embroider their clothes with pretty designs, something for them to remember him by.

On his trips, Cullen has seen his younger self, also visiting the mages, talking to them, making his amends. It won’t be enough, there aren’t enough years left for Cullen to make up for what he’s done, but maybe with two of him working at it, they can get close.

“Did Hawke really kill me?” Anders stares straight ahead, but none of their companions turn or show any sign of hearing them.

“Yeah. It messed him up. He told me about it years later. It still hurt. You’ve seen him kill without caring. I’m--I don’t know if this is making you feel better or not. You aren’t the same person you were in my time.”

“Because of you?” Anders chuckles. “At least, partly, because of you. Who would’ve thought I learn something from a  _ templar _ .”

“Ex-templar,” Cullen reminds him. “There was a time I thought there was nothing I could learn from mages. I’m glad I was wrong.”  _ I’m glad I met you. _

“Me too.”

“Hey! Love birds!” Varric cackles as they spring apart, even though they were having a quiet conversation, nothing more. “Ready to make war instead?”

Cullen and Anders share an eyeroll. They follow Fenris underground. The back of Cullen’s neck prickles as it grows darker the further away from the surface they get. He checks his belt to make sure he has a full store of potions.

Anders makes a low, inquiring noise, but Cullen can’t explain it. Years of templar training, a stint in Kirkwall, serving the Inquisition, they’ve all honed his sense of danger. And right now? Alarm bells are ringing.

As if one cue, a dwarf rushes toward them, something wrong with his eyes, with his gait. “The Hawke’s blood! The Master will rise. He will be free!”

“Master?” Cullen asks. This is the second time they’ve heard this ‘master’ mentioned. Who’s the one pulling all these strings?

“Gerav?” Varric asks at the same time, something hurt in his voice. Cullen recognizes that deep ache, this dwarf is someone Varric once knew. And now Varric’s seeing his--colleague? friend?--and realizing there’s something very wrong. Something he likely won’t come back from.

Gerav gains lucidity for a moment. “Varric?” He sounds almost sorry as he realizes Varric’s here.

Cullen’s bad feeling grows worse. Because the sympathy on Gerav’s face? It’s the face of a man who realizes he’s going to have to hurt a friend and regret it, not the face of a man who could be persuaded to take a different path.

“Master?” Cullen presses again, but Gerav ignores him, and they end up fighting, because they always fight.

The reinforcements are dispatched without much effort. Gerav still lives, wounded, stuck on his back. Cullen turns away to give Varric a moment with his friend, with the man who made his weapon. There’s the sound of a crossbow bolt being fired and then Varric clears his throat. “Let’s keep going.”

“Varric,” Anders begins and then pauses. For all he’s a healer, he struggles with compassion and empathy. He tried at least, before he realized he was out of his depth.

“We’ll all have to make sacrifices to get out of here,” Varric says.

Cullen wishes it didn’t sound so ominous, like a chanter speaking the words of the Maker into the world, turning them into promise.

#

They fight more Carta dwarves, but this time, Hawke pokes at the bodies and ends up activating some kind of staff. He stares at it, shrugs, and decides to keep it.

“I don’t like this,” Fenris says, eyeing the staff as if it’ll turn into a snake and bite.

“It’s glows in my hands,” Hawke says, twirling the staff. “It’s as if it was made for me.”

“Exactly.” Fenris looks to Cullen for backup.

“With all this prattling about your blood, it doesn’t seem wise to wield a weapon so in tune with yourself,” Cullen says.

“Merrill’s the blood mage, not me.”

“It’s the Hawke!” More Carta dwarves appear, but these ones run.

Hawke glances at their group and then gives chase. The rest of them have no choice but to follow, down a hallway, down a set of stairs. They make it to the bottom, and Cullen feels a breeze pick up. He turns and--

The way behind them is sealed. Cullen feels the whisper of magic across his skin, oily and wrong.  _ Trapped _ , the scared part of his mind screams. He shoves it down. This is not the time for weakness.

“I’m sure there’s another way out,” Hawke says, commanding, reassuring. He grips his new staff like a walking stick. “Besides, we still haven’t met this master fellow. I bet if we ask him nicely, he’ll show us how to get home.”

“Home?” Varric asks. “Are you getting sentimental in your old age, Champion?”

They continue on their way, cautious now that they know there’s nowhere to run. Hawke and Varric banter, and it’s soothing on Cullen’s frayed nerves. Trapped outside the city, below ground, with people who want Hawke dead. It isn’t the worst odds Cullen’s faced, but he doesn’t like them either.

“None of this is familiar to you?” Anders asks.

They move into an open room and shades rise from the ground. Cullen raises his sword. “This is very familiar to me.” They cut down shades, the casters in the back, Varric and Cullen keeping the shades at bay while Fenris tears about the room. Cullen would worry about the lack of armor he wears, but Fenris is so damn fast, very little can catch him.

Once they room’s cleared, Cullen gives himself a moment to catch his breath. “Cassandra asked Varric about what happened here. He said it was family business and refused to say anything else.”

“Family business?” Hawke asks. “I’m not from Kirkwall.”

“They are talking about your blood,” Anders says. “Has anyone in your family spent time in Kirkwall?”

“Ah yes,” Hawke says as they continue onward. “It was my father’s favorite story, he’d tell it while we sat by the magefire. About the time he, an apostate mage, strutted into Kirkwall, which was teeming with templars even then, and split a few veins to water the ground with his blood. It must be why I’m so powerful here.”

Anders rolls his eyes, but Cullen notes the way he slows a step as if wanting to put some distance between them, as if Hawke’s sarcasm met its unintended mark.

“It’s a good theory,” Cullen says. “I know we’re outside the city limits, but this is still Kirkwall. It’s always blood magic.”

Hawke eyes his new staff. “Chances of this turning on me?”

“Very high,” Fenris says. “But not as high as the chances of you keeping it anyway.”

Their laughter is short-lived as they turn into a room full of darkspawn. And it isn’t baby darkspawn, there are alphas here, and Cullen grits his teeth and bears the brunt of the alpha’s strike as he relies on Hawke to kill it quickly. As soon as one is down, another takes its place.

Eventually, they stop coming. Cullen isn’t the only one out of breath this time. By unspoken agreement, they take a moment to catch their breaths.

They move into their next room and after they finish fighting, a voice speaks without a body. It’s a man’s voice, deep, and Hawke goes completely still. Down here, his face is pale, and the red streak across his nose stands out even more.

“That’s your father’s voice,” Fenris says, having come to the same conclusion Cullen did.

“My father never said he’d been to Kirkwall.” Hawke looks around as if one of the empty cells has answers for him. When they don’t, they continue forward.

They’re cautious as they enter another open room. So far, these rooms have been full of demons and darkspawn, and this one looks particularly promising with fallen rocks and sand to provide cover.

Fenris, still taking point, pauses, and holds up a hand. They pause and in the silence, hear something’s labored breathing then the slow shuffle of agonized steps. A figure creeps toward them. Varric loads Bianca. Hawke holds out his staff.

“The key!” The...man approaching them looks as though he’s seen better days. His rich brown hair is falling out in places, both from his head and his beard. He limps toward them, one shoulder drawn up as if his muscles locked into an awkward position. But his eyes...Maker, his eyes. Rough around the edges, like leather left in the sun too long, and the pupils hazy, not quite focused.

Cullen steps between Hawke and this man. His gaze flicks down to the man’s armor. “You’re a warden?”

“I.” The man pauses as if unused to having people speak back. He looks down at himself. “Yes. I...Commander of the Grey. My name is Larius.” He looks up, a smile splitting his face, proud. His gaze locks in on Hawke’s staff again. “You carry the key. The key made the seals. It can destroy them.”

“Anyone else nervous about breaking the seals?” Varric asks. “I figure, they’re probably sealing something in.”

“Us,” Hawke answers. He studies his staff again. “This is the key to us getting out of here?”

“Down and in,” Larius says, shuffling toward the far side of the room, having elected himself their guide. “Down and in.”

There are seals to break and more darkspawn and more shades, nothing which can give them answers. Not until they turn a corner, and there’s met with a small unit of Grey Wardens. Unlike Larius, these ones don’t look as though they’ve been trapped down here for a century.

Speaking of Larius...Cullen looks around but the man’s vanished. Instead, a woman who introduces herself as Janeka and a handful of warriors approach.

“You must be Malcom Hawke’s son,” she says.

“I knew it,” Anders mutters, too quietly for anyone but Cullen to hear.

“The seals have kept a powerful darkspawn trapped here,” Janeka says, and Fenris isn’t the only one to groan. “But he could be the secret to ending the blights. He’s an intelligent darkspawn, capable of thought and reason. He’s been trapped here, because the Wardens didn’t know what to do with him. Because they were too short-sighted. But  _ I  _ can see. He will secure our future.”

“Who?” Hawke demands.

Janeka smiles, too bright, almost dopey, the smile of an apostle deep in the thrall of their master. “Corypheus.”

Cullen’s aware of a conversation happening around him, but he can’t hear a word of it. The world has gone quiet around him but thunderingly loud within his head, like the time he fell through the ice in the lake. He was sucked away from the hole, trapped under slabs of unforgiving ice, trapped, and he thought it would be his end. He kicked his way along the sheet of ice until he found the edge. He hauled himself up, flopped onto the surface like a fish.

It took him a long time to hear anything beyond his own panic. It’s the same way now.

This is how Corypheus was freed. He wasn’t lurking in the Fade, waiting for the opportunity of the Conclave. He wasn’t...well, whatever theories they came up with. He was here, trapped outside of Kirkwall until  _ the Champion  _ fucking freed him.

Cullen wants to rip out his hair, beat his chest,  _ scream _ , but it’s as if he’s trapped in ice again. He was sent back to Kirkwall, he began to make good changes here, changes which might spread across the Free Marches, to Ferelden, maybe even to Orlais. Better lives for mages, better lives for templars. But what do better lives matter now?

They’re about to unleash the end of the world.

How silly of him to finally think he was atoning. He can never atone.

He raises his gaze to the ceiling.  _ Why do you hate your children _ he demands of the Maker. The Maker doesn’t answer.

But Hawke does. “Cullen?” Hawke’s voice is hesitant, distant.

Cullen’s gaze snaps toward the man. He holds his hands up quickly, an act of peace or maybe surrender. Cullen tries to smooth whatever murderous rage shows on his face. “Corypheus.” He spits on the ground. Anger boils up. At Varric for lying to Cassandra. At Cassandra for not pushing him harder. At himself for letting himself believe.

“I’m thinking it’s bad that you know his name. Anyone else?” Varric looks around, but no one gives him even a pity smile. “Yeah. Hit us with it. What’d we start this time?”

“The end of the world.”

To their credit, none of them laugh. Cullen almost wishes they would, to break the suffocating tension crushing his lungs, or to give him an outlet for his anger.

Cullen’s hands shake so he clasps them behind his back. He rocks on his heels and it almost feels like a debrief. “Corypheus was one of the original Tevinter magisters who sought the Golden City. He entered into the Fade and, along with his companions, corrupted the Golden City and created the blights.”

No one speaks.  _ Report _ , Cullen reminds himself. “In my time, Corypheus plotted to destroy the world as we knew it.”  _ Irrelevant. Distraction _ . “He is a darkspawn, more powerful than you have ever encountered.”  _ Cannot be killed. Suspicion, not fact.  _ Cullen’s gaze pins Larius in place. “You are coming with us. His final blow must be dealt by a Grey Warden.”

“I’m guessing you learned that one the hard way,” Hawke says, gently.

“He can...possess wardens. The next time we see Janeka and her allies, we kill them. We can’t afford to leave him hosts. He cannot escape this place alive.”

Anders clears his throat. “What are his feelings about ex-wardens?”

“You’re already possessed by Justice,” Hawke says. “There’s no space for Corypheus.” He looks to Cullen as if seeking reassurance.

“You are already possessed,” Cullen agrees. But the promise he makes is this.  _ You will not have to kill Anders this time. If it’s Corypheus or Anders, I will do what must be done. _

Larius glances between the group. “You...know Corypheus?”

“It’s a long story and one I don’t feel like sharing.” Cullen eyes the sword strapped to his back. “Are you well enough to swing that thing?”

“Corypheus is calling to us,” Larius says. “I came here to die and I have but yet I live. I wondered for what purpose.”

“For this purpose,” Cullen says, pouring all his templar conviction into his words.

Larius stands straighter, responding to the charge.

“The Calling?” Hawke glances at Anders, worried. “How are you holding up?”

“I don’t hear a thing,” Anders says. “Justice, protecting me.”

“Would you say he’s possessive?” Varric asks, chuckling.

Hawke’s too relieved to laugh but as soon as he looks away, Anders’s smile slips.  _ A lie _ , Cullen thinks. He makes a note to keep a close eye on Anders as they continue forward.

The next time they run into Janeka, they kill her and her warden friends but not before she forces Larius to confess to blackmailing Malcom Hawke into helping trap Corypheus. For a moment, Cullen worries he’ll have to stand between Hawke and Larius, defend their hope at defeating Corypheus.

But Hawke just shakes his head and continues onward. Fenris falls into step with him, saying nothing, but offering comfort nonetheless. Fenris knows all about fucked up shit you don’t want to talk about. Cullen does too. Hell, their whole party does.

They reach a circular room with an altar in the center. Cullen blood hums and sweat trickles down his back. This is the place. This is where Corypheus is held. And this is where he’ll be released.

Is this how it went last time? Hawke striding up to the altar with purpose? He’s sure they were confident they could kill whatever was imprisoned here. Because what had the Champion and his companions ever faced that they couldn’t defeat? What did Varric feel when he realized the Inquisition was fighting the monster he unleashed on the world. And Hawke...trapped in the Fade. Cullen shakes his head.

He refocuses in time to bark out a sharp, “Stop!”

Hawke freezes, knife held to his palm. “The plan’s to kill him. You came up with it so it’s going to work.”

His faith warms Cullen in a distant place he’ll feel once the rest of him has thawed. But he isn’t doubting, that isn’t why he called a halt. “Slicing open your hand is stupid. You’re going to need your hands. A shallow cut on your forearm, I’m sure you only need a few drops of blood.”

“Oh.” Hawke clears his throat and moves his knife. “Of course.”

Cullen moves closer to Larius. Even if he must give up his life to do it, give up Hawke’s life to do it, Larius will live. He raises his shield as the first drops of blood fall. Hawke scrambles backward as Corypheus rises, half-man half-corpse.

“He’s confused,” Larius says after Corypheus babbles about gods and temples.

“Good,” Cullen says. “Shoot him.”

“Come on, Bianca. Time to avenge your father.” Varric takes the first shot.

Corypheus jerks as the bolt pierces his side and stares down at it, disbelieving. His face curls into an ugly sneer. “How dare you!”

Hawke throws a fireball at him. “Oh, we dare.”

“I am a Tevinter magister, and you shall kneel before me!”

“Oh, buddy,” Hawke mutters as Fenris’s lyrium markings flare to life. “I don’t think the ex-Tevinter slave likes that too much.”

Fenris charges with a shout. Hawke brings down lightning, quick and piercing before Fenris can be caught in the aftershocks. He throws fire next and ice, Anders boosting his spells. Fenris learns quickly his Fade abilities don’t affect Corypheus, so he turns to his sword, hacking and slashing, jumping back when Hawke calls out a warning so he can throw some heavier magic at the darkspawn.

Cullen stands guard over Larius, a hand fisted in his tunic to keep the man from running. Larius blubbers out a warning before fire erupts from the floor. Cullen leaps back, but Larius’s tunic rips, and the man doesn’t come with him. He’s caught in the fire, and he screams as his flesh cooks inside his armor.

_ No _ , Cullen thinks.  _ No, no, no. I can’t have failed. I _ \--

A strong hand grabs him and hauls him out of the way as the fire creeps toward him, chasing them out of the inner sanctum and to one of the offshoots. There are shades there, of course there are, and Anders releases Cullen’s arm and throws a spell at the nearest shade.

“It’s going to be okay,” Anders promises.

And Cullen doesn’t believe him so much as he  _ has  _ to believe him. He charges into the fight, hacking at shades until they’re gone. The fire’s moved, given them a clear run a Corypheus. Cullen rushes him, Fenris a few steps behind.

Cullen drives his sword into Corypheus’s body. A flinging arm knocks Cullen clear to the other side of the room. He rolls out of the way of the encroaching flames. Shades spring up, trapping him where he is as the others battle Corypheus. Varric coos at Bianca, Fenris shouts, Hawke has his pithy banter. Cullen looks up, sees Anders, and, reassured everyone is okay, continues his fight.

Once the shades are gone, he enters the fray again. He stabs his sword in and up, and Corypheus howls. Magic picks Cullen up and slams him into the far wall. He groans, even with his armor taking the brunt of it, he’s still  _ in  _ his armor. He staggers to his feet. Something cool washes over him, easing the worst of his hurts. Cullen flashes Anders a smile and drives at Corypheus again.

This is what he’s been lacking since coming to Kirkwall. A  _ purpose _ . How could he have believed his purpose to be quiet words, gentle lessons, soft actions? He is a soldier, raised a templar to fight a holy war against the evil of mages. And here, before him, is the worst of them all. A mage who thought mortals have any right to walk amongst the gods. All of Thedas has paid for Coryhpeus’s crimes. It’s time for him to do the same.

With the familiar weight of his sword in his hand, Cullen hacks and slashes, brings his shield up to ward against the worst of Corypheus’s attacks. And then he jumps in again. Attack, attack, attack. This is what he was made for, no matter what Cassandra tried to tell him, no matter what sweet words the Inquisitor spoke. This life here in Kirkwall. This is the fake world. He’s known since he first landed, he didn’t belong.

But, now, finally, this is what he is meant to do. He drives his blade into the back of Corypheus’s knee and twists, a crippling move if he was human. Corypheus falls, but he sweeps his arm out and once agains Cullen flies across the room. He hits harder this time, and his shield skitters across the floor and out of his reach.

“This is one nasty bugger,” Varric says.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hawke says. “Shouldn’t saving the world have a bit of challenge in it?”

“Sure, you save a city and now think you should save the world. There’s a thing called mediocrity, Hawke. You should embrace it.”

“Fenris,” Hawke warns and even Cullen backs up even though he’s far outside the blast radius. Hawke brings down a torrent of lightning and while Corypheus twists and burns, hissing out a slow breath, Hawke shoots a wave of ice at him.

Corypheus tips over, landing hard on the ground. Clinging to life, Cullen knows he’s still dangerous. He looks for Larius, remembers how he failed, and dread fills his stomach. If they can’t kill Corypheus...Cassandra and Leliana are on their way. Cullen will tell them the truth. They’ll reunite the Inner Circle. They’ll find the Inquisitor. They can do this. They don’t have any other choice.

“No,” Anders says softly. “Let me.” He catches Fenris’s arm and gently pulls him back.

Cullen realizes what’s about to happen a moment before Hawke does, but Cullen’s too far away to do anything about it. Anders draws the knife from his belt and drives it into Corypheus’s heart.

“Anders!” Hawke cries. He grabs Anders and pulls him back, but it’s too late.

Corypheus’s spirit rises from his body. Cullen races forward, but there’s nothing he can do as the sickly grey spirit slips into Anders’s body. Light flares beneath Anders’s skin as if Justice is trying to escape.

_ As if he’s fighting _ , Cullen realizes.

He makes it to Anders’s side at the same time as Hawke, both of them dropping down beside him to hold him steady as he convulses, two spirits fighting for control over his body. Fenris hovers nearby, hands clenching and unclenching, frustrated with his uselessness.

Light flares and dims, depending on which side is winning, and Cullen hates this, trapped on the sidelines, useless as the fight is waged without him. He grips Anders’s hand in his free hand. He squeezes tightly as if he can lend Anders’s his strength.

There’s a brilliant flash of light, and it leaves Cullen blinking even after it’s gone. Anders’s hand is limp in his. Cullen shakes his head, shakes Anders’s hand. Varric drops down next to him, fumbling with a potion. Most of it spills on Anders’s chest, but he manages to get some in Anders’s mouth.

Lying down means Anders chokes, sputtering until Hawke tips his head up. Fenris fishes a potion from him own belt and hands it over. Anders shakes his head.

“It won’t help.” Anders’s voice is raspy, weak, but still there which means there’s still hope. Hawke tips some potion down his throat before Anders turns his head. He looks up at Cullen,  _ young _ , but not scared. “Tell them?”

Cullen squeezes Anders’s hand again to give him a moment to compose himself. “I’ll make sure everyone knows a mage saved the world.” His voice wavers but doesn’t break. “That my friend saved the world.”

Anders smiles and tips his head up so he can see Fenris. “One less mage will make you happy.”

“Nothing you have ever done has made me happy,” Fenris says, far too softly for his words to sting. “Especially this.”

Anders turns to Varric next. “You were right.  _ We’ll all have to make sacrifices to get out of here _ .”

Varric tousles Anders’s hair. “You couldn’t have let me be wrong this once? My head’s going to swell up, and that’ll look funny on a dwarf.”

“Think up a good story to tell the others, okay?” Anders’s head lolls to the side as his strength ebbs away. He looks up at Hawke. His fingers twitch feebly and Hawke lifts Anders’s hand so he can cup Hawke’s cheek. “Thank you.”

And then Anders’s eyes close, and his hand slips from Hawke’s grip and falls to the ground. Hawke pushes to his feet, storms away and shouts until the very foundations of the building shake. Cullen stays by Anders’s side until Fenris leaves and returns, Cullen’s shield in his hands.

“I will carry it for you,” Fenris says.

Cullen nods, his throat too clogged for words. He slips one arm under Anders’s knees, the other under his back. He stands and waits for someone to lead. They all turn to Hawke who’s shoulders slump before he juts out his chin and strides away.

They fall into line and, slowly, make their way back to Kirkwall.

Epilogue

“I don’t believe any of this.” Cassandra stares sharply down at Varric as if she’s identified him as the one most likely to crack. Or, perhaps, because he’s the one speaking, she expects him to continue speaking until something he says makes sense.

Cassandra and Leliana did in fact arrive to survey Kirkwall and all its changes. Their first few days were spent visiting the Viscount’s Keep, the Chantry, being given the grand tour of Kirkwall. Now, they’re being hosted by the Champion and his companions.

Aveline is playing house parent tonight, the children finally comfortable around her. Cullen suspects it’s because they enjoy her gruff, motherly attention, not that he would ever risk saying so to either Aveline or the children.

The rest of them are gathered in Hawke’s mansion, food and drink loading the table down. As they drank more, they talked more, Cassandra insisting on the unvarnished truth, something she believed the Viscount didn’t give her.

Cullen hangs to the fringe of this conversation. Seeing Cassandra and Leliana again, it’s a sharp ache in his chest, as if returning home for the first time after many years gone and realizing things aren’t quite as you expect. The dishes are in a new cabinet, your favorite food has a different flavor, and your bed is now too small.

He’s glad Leliana isn’t hardened by the loss of the Divine, and he’s glad Cassandra doesn’t carry the weight of the world on her shoulders, but he misses his friends. He misses the people they became even though he’s glad they prevented the events which would make them that way.

“None of it?” Hawke slouches in his chair, indolent, a bit of spark back in his eyes after...well, after. “Surely you can believe at least one thing. I did hitch a ride here with a dragon. I would have Aveline vouch for me, but she’s no doubt caving and reading the children another bedtime story. She’s a soft touch.”

“I dare you to say that while she has a sword in her hands,” Varric says.

_ “ _ I’ll heal you after,” Merrill volunteers.

Hawke beams as if this is all the affection he needs in the world, friends to dare him into trouble and friends to patch him up afterward.

Cassandra’s lips twitch for a moment before she scowls again. “A dragon?”

“Are we going through this whole thing again?” Fenris asks, bored. “What’s it matter if she believes you?”

“Because if she doesn’t, the Divine will give her leave to march an army into Kirkwall.” Cullen steps out of the corner he was lurking in. Isabela and Sebastian startle as if they forgot he was here, but Leliana simply watches him move. “It would be a shame. We just put the finishing touches on our clinic.”

_ Kirkwall’s Justice _ .

“It could use a good christening,” Varric says.

“Reach out to Tevinter,” Cullen says because as much fun as baiting Cassandra is, they don’t actually want an army marching on their city. “Ask them about a magister named Corypheus.”

“Someone already has,” Leliana says. Her sharp gaze tells him she knows exactly who initiated the conversation. “One of their scholars is on his way with an entire history for us. Dorian Pavus. He--” She pauses, no doubt noting the subtle change in his posture. “Do you know him?”

“Of reputation only.”

Cassandra scoffs. “Who a man loves should be his own business.”

“Ooh, I like how that sounds,” Hawke says. “Is he visiting here? I’m sure we can make room for him.”

“Sure,” Fenris agrees easily. “Cullen and I will take the room down the hall.”

Hawke launches into a campaign to earn Fenris’s forgiveness which ranges from dangling grapes in front of his mouth to trying to tug open the ties on Fenris’s pants.

Fed up, Cassandra turns her attention back to Varric. “What happened after this...dragon.”

It’s Isabela’s turn to groan. “You are bloody determined. Normally, it’s a quality I like in a woman, but right now I’m ready to send you back to the Viscount.”

“I’m writing a book,” Varric says before Cassandra can grow too offended. “You’ll be able to read the telling of it as many times as you wish.”

“She prefers romances,” Cullen says without thinking.

Cassandra flushes and stammers out a protest. Leliana watches Cullen, her eyes narrowed as if she can pluck the secrets from his head. They used to have competitions, Cole versus Leliana, who could suss out a person’s thoughts first. Leliana won far more often than she should have.

“There’ll be romance,” Varric says. “I believe Hawke promised to pose if I’d make Fenris the leading man.”

“I’m not the Champion of Kirkwall,” Fenris says. “The book should not be about me.”

“You’re a big part of my story,” Hawke says. It’s sincere until he waggles his eyebrows and dips his gaze below Fenris’s waist.

Isabela and Cassandra both throw crusts of bread at him and then pause, and eye each other up.

“Oh, Maker, no,” Cullen says.

“Oh, Maker,  _ yes _ .” Isabela smirks and glances at Leliana. “What do you say? For old time’s sake?”

Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose as Isabela leads the two women down the hall. Hawke calls out a half-hearted protest about this not being Isabela’s house, but all three of them ignore him. Sebastian, flushed a mottled red, offers to escort Merrill back to the clinic even though Kirkwall’s streets don’t require escorts these days.

It leaves Hawke, Varric, Fenris, and Cullen together at the table. Hawke picks up a cup, sees wine still in it, and takes a sip.

“I am writing a book,” Varric says. “Now that crime and crime fighting are no longer viable career paths, I need a steady source of income. First,  _ Tale of the Champion _ . Maybe I’ll dabble in romance.  _ Swords & Shields _ , maybe.”

“Not  _ Swords & Sheaths _ ?” Hawke grins and spreads his legs. “Hey Cullen, wanna polish my sword later?”

“Come on, I”m a better writer than that,” Varric complains. “I wonder how many times I can use turgid in one novel.”

“I’m more interested in the sequel,” Cullen says. “What happens after  _ Tale of the Champion _ ?”

“Aw.” Varric smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m not that far yet. But if you want to give me any ideas…”

“I still like being a dragon rider,” Hawke says.

“I like the retirement plan with the dogs better,” Cullen says.

“Retirement?” Hawke looks up from his cup of wine with interest. Even Fenris turns to pay attention.

“We saved the world,” Cullen reminds them. “I figure, we might as well live in it.”

“I would not object to a dog,” Fenris says.

“If we have one, the kids will want one,” Hawke says.

Cullen’s heart beats painfully fast. “Kids like puppies.”

“I said one dog,” Fenris says.

Hawke turns to Cullen, mischief dancing in his eyes. “If you agree with me, we out-vote him.”

“No dogs on the bed,” Fenris says, and Cullen notes he says  _ dogs  _ as if resigned to losing this fight.

Hawke, naturally, jumps on this weakness. Cullen’s drawn into their conversation, and he barely notices Varric slip away from the table. But he does, as Varric heads toward the door, catch his quiet, “Whatever the sequel is, it’ll have a happy ending.”


End file.
